


build it from the ground up

by orphan_account



Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-17
Updated: 2016-05-17
Packaged: 2018-06-09 00:43:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 22,937
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6882460
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Patrick arrives in Dallas on a quiet Tuesday.</p>
            </blockquote>





	build it from the ground up

**Author's Note:**

> Wow. There was a good chunk of time after I started this where I wasn't sure if I'd ever post it, but here we are. Thanks to Carol for betaing this mess and also for allowing me to basically live in her inbox for the duration of my writing it. Another huge thanks to Em, who championed these two dudes from the start, and naturally got me hooked on their dynamic before I even knew what was happening.
> 
> Lastly, thanks to [altri_uccelli](http://archiveofourown.org/users/altri_uccelli) for reminding me that hockey fandom can still be a fun place.
> 
> This takes place following the 2013-2014 season, and obviously this 2014-2015 season is entirely made up, but I tried to have some fun with it.
> 
> Ahead: backwards hats galore.

**JULY [2014]**

Patrick arrives in Dallas on a quiet Tuesday, too early even for the city to be awake, sunlight a dim orange on the horizon that just barely breaks the deep blue of a 5 am sky. Seguin's there waiting anyway, bleary-eyed in the driver's seat of his truck. He doesn't make any moves to help Patrick with his luggage, which is fine, it's not like he has much for this initial trip out. Just some press, pictures, show how happy he is to be here.

In a way, happy's a bit of stretch. It's no secret that he's wanted to play in Buffalo for a while and here he is in Texas, but just because that hasn't happened yet doesn't mean it won't, even if it's only to finish his career. More than anything, he's glad to be out of Chicago. Not in a way that's relieving, exactly, Chicago was amazing, gave him two cups, but if there's anything he fears it's complacency. He wants a challenge, wants a breath of fresh fucking air that's not icy and thick with too much expectation, and it's not like the Stars are on par with the Blackhawks, not at this point, which is what makes it—not fun, exactly, but worth it to be somewhere new.

After stowing away his bags in the trunk, Patrick hops in the passenger seat, adjusting his hat once he's buckled. Tyler flashes him a grin that Patrick returns, a little brighter, a little more awake. It's good to see him again, Patrick thinks.

"You figured out where you're living? Thought about apartments at all?" They're merging onto the I-35 and haven't said more than a couple cursory greetings to each other. Tyler's voice is scratchy, still sounding like he's just rolled out of bed. It's probably not far off, though it's a half hour drive to Dallas and he said he'd been up checking Patrick's flight anyway.

Patrick coughs and shrugs. "Not really. I booked a hotel for the few nights I'm here, but I kinda thought I'd wait on, uh, everything else until closer to the season."

"Yeah," Tyler says quietly, and it's not much—Patrick remembers Tyler's not a big morning guy, mute before the sun's good and out even though he’s an early riser—but Patrick hears something in his voice like understanding, and he realizes Tyler probably gets this situation better than anyone. Sure, he hadn't wanted to leave the Bruins, so his circumstances were slightly different, but the whole not being thrilled about Dallas thing—that's familiar. The radio's on low, some top hits station, and Patrick turns it up, the silence a little too heavy for him right now. By the time they turn onto Continental Ave for breakfast, they're both singing the na-nas with Trey Songz, windows rolled down as the Texas heat creeps in with the sun. If nothing else, it brings back the easiness of Switzerland and leaves Patrick calmer and marginally more excited once Tyler drops him off at his hotel.

 

*

 

"Hey," he answers, phone tucked between his ear and shoulder haphazardly as he tugs a shoe on.

"What time are you heading over?" Tyler asks. His voice gets distant as Patrick's phone slips, and he catches it just before it hits the floor.

"Uh, like now," he says, glancing at his watch. It's a few hours later, still early in the day, and he's showered, hung his dress shirts, and napped. He's got time and his hotel's close to the arena, but there will be things to take care of before he gets settled answering questions and it's not like he wants to make a bad impression here, isn't looking to mar the image he built for himself over the past couple of seasons to make up for the fiasco that was Madison.

"I'll join you. I've got some shit to do."

That sounds like a lie, seeing as it's early July and there's no way Tyler doesn't already have a clear training regimen. Patrick says as much.

Tyler laughs once, sharp and real in a way that surprises a smile out of Patrick. "Yeah, fuck off, I'm just bored. My buddies won't be around for another week and I haven't seen you since we played. And when was that, like, six months ago?"

"Had to be," Patrick smirks, thinking about the line before he says it, "since you never made it past Anaheim to play us." 

Tyler makes a noncommittal noise. "Yeah, fucking sucks, losing in the playoffs. You'd know all about that, though." He makes a choking noise, then coughs out "Kings," while Patrick laughs. It's a testament to his moving on from Chicago that the memory doesn't really sting, not the way it's supposed to. The loss is more personal than anything else. Patrick is competitive, loves to win and hates to lose even more, and of course he'd like to have a third ring sitting heavy on his finger.

"Next year though, right?" Patrick replies snottily, extra douchey, like he's not insulting the team he's joining. He can practically hear the eye-roll he's getting through the phone.

"Fuckin' hot shot. Like your presence alone is enough to get us a Cup. Anyway, I'm leaving in five. See you there."

He hangs up, and Patrick shoves half a banana in his mouth, leftover from room service, before heading out the door.

 

*

 

Predictably, the day is exhausting. He gets his new jersey—88's not retired or used by the Stars, thank god, so he gets to keep the number; honestly, that might’ve been a deal breaker had it come up—and puts the green and white hat on before he shakes hands and smiles for pictures. Tyler's in the corner, smirking like a jackass, so the smile isn't forced, and he ends up dragging Tyler into a few pictures just because he can.

The media's eating this storyline up, their reunion, good friends playing together again, so it helps that this time around the narrative of close buddies is true from the start. That's something new he can get on board with, not having to fake camaraderie like he'd had to do with Toews, at least at the beginning of his career. For all that he doesn't actually know Tyler _that_ well, he's not worried about it, and the friendship that began in Switzerland has carried over to the States easily enough. 

After all the preliminary bullshit, though, Patrick's got to field media questions, most of which revolve around how he feels about leaving Chicago, joining the Stars, what he thinks the chemistry will be like here, whether he can recreate what he had with Toews. He grits his teeth through them, diplomatic to a fault because hell if he hasn't perfected deflection in the face of a nosy press. Part of him thought maybe he'd get to escape the Kane-Toews narrative; clearly some things are going to take time.

Eventually, the constant stream of questions dissipates, and Patrick's so ready to grab a beer from somewhere and relax. He's got a busy day tomorrow, too, going over contract details in person with management and maybe getting his fitness tests taken care of. Tyler's long since left; Patrick gets it, not wanting unnecessary media attention, but he keeps glancing towards the door anyway.

It's weird, a bunch of unfamiliar faces in front of him when he's used to the usual crowd of writers in Chicago, and so far Tyler's the only person he's seen who he actually feels like he knows. 

"Patrick, one last question," a guy to the right says, and Patrick blinks out of his thoughts. 

"Go for it," he grins, hoping the sleep deprivation doesn't show on his face.

"Now that you're here in Dallas, do you plan on meeting up with any teammates? Seeing how any potential chemistry translates off ice?"

Nice—Patrick's thankful for the softball question. He was expecting something more about playoff possibilities for the Stars, or how he's planning on producing for the team, which there's really only so much he can say about without repeating himself sixteen different ways.

Leaning back, Patrick's grin widens. "Actually, Segs picked me up from the airport," he says, "which was great, and I'm sure I'll get to hang out with him again before I leave." The media's sure as fuck going to jump on that tidbit; Patrick knows how this works, doesn’t mind pandering to it for now. "As for the rest, I think most of the guys are home with family. I'm excited to meet all of them as teammates when the time comes, though, and of course can't wait to get back on the ice."

He says a quick collective thank you to the Stars organization and everyone in the room, and lets a whoosh of air out of his chest once he's out the door. Luckily, he doesn't have to stick around much longer, and it's less than forty-five minutes before he's in a cab back to the Ritz, only a five minute drive from the American Airlines Center. 

As soon as he's back in his hotel room he pulls out his phone and sends Tyler a text. 

 _I'm free,_  he says, hoping Tyler's down to get drinks or entertain him for his one free night in Dallas until August.

_perks of being an American_

Tyler's text startles a laugh out of Patrick, bringing him back to Switzerland, how sharp Tyler's wit is. 

_Must suck, being from canada_

_the dictatorship isnt really that bad. now let me show you around dallas_

Patrick's changing when the text chimes in on his phone, pulling on his favorite pair of khakis and a tee-shirt, unsure about the Texas heat outside his air-conditioned hotel room. Instead of sending a response he calls, foot tapping impatiently on the floor.

"Where are you taking me," he says in lieu of an actual greeting.

"That's for me to know and you to find out," Tyler says easily.

"I'm ready whenever. And I need a beer, or five, so hurry up."

"You got it. Hey, don't let it be said that I can't treat the new star player to a good time, make him feel welcome," Tyler laughs, and Patrick can hear the smirk in his voice.

He shifts his phone to his left ear, swiveling his hat so it sits backwards on his head. "I'll be the judge of that, Seguin. I've got high standards. I expect strippers and coke."

"Thought you were trying to keep a good reputation,  _Kaner_ ," Tyler says. "After all, that's half the reason the Bruins told me to fuck off. Wouldn't want the Stars doing the same to you, right? That's just embarrassing." After a muffled jangle, he says, "Keys are in my hand. I'll be there in a sec," and hangs up before Patrick can say anything else. 

There aren’t any strippers and coke; instead, Tyler takes him to a sports bar, Ojos Locos, which only broadcasts soccer but has got the most gorgeous servers walking around in skimpy outfits, so Patrick settles into his chair with a smirk.

The service is good, a brunette with cat-like eyes sidling up to Tyler immediately. She clearly recognizes him, which Patrick’s ashamed to say surprises him a bit, part of him still certain that because this is Texas, hockey takes the back burner to pretty much everything else. Maybe, though, it won’t be as different as he’s been preparing for. After all, the Stars had a good season, Seguin and Benn as dynamic a duo as they come, and it makes sense for people to have started taking notice.

They both take it easy, Patrick opting for a Stella while Tyler orders a Sol, and he leans back, comfortable, some of that exhaustion he’d been feeling earlier falling away with the atmosphere and the beer.

“So,” he drawls, “the rumors are true. Tyler Seguin is officially boring as hell.” He says it with a grin, makes sure Tyler knows he’s kidding. They were close in Switzerland, enough that when Patrick had gotten homesick Tyler had been the one to get an earful, but it’s been a while since then, and Patrick’s always been the type to need to get a feel for someone again, to test the waters before jumping in. Tyler smiles, but it’s tight around the edges, and Patrick makes note of it. Madison’s still a sore subject for him, and while it’s not like Tyler had one specific incident to remedy with press conferences and official statements, Patrick gets it. Better than most, maybe.

It’s Tyler who changes the subject, thumbing at the peeling label on his beer. “Gotta try the nachos,” he says, nodding at the menu. “Fucking _killer_ , especially with queso on top.”

“Guess I’ll have to, then,” Patrick says. He’s almost done with his beer, and their waitress arrives right on time to take their order, promising a pitcher after Patrick gets Tyler on board. He’s only here for a night, and the thick July heat’s making him antsy, looking to get a buzz under his skin.

The pitcher of beer turns into tequila shots, naturally, and by the time they leave the bar it’s past dark, still warm and humid but manageable without the wicked heat of the sun. Tyler knocks his elbow against Patrick’s arm as they walk to the car, and Patrick quirks his lips in a smile until he catches Tyler watching him.

“What?” he says.

Tyler just shakes his head, though, and Patrick leaves it at that.

“Want to call it a night, or…” Tyler trails off, question in his tone.

Patrick shrugs. “I wouldn’t mind having a little more. No more press tomorrow, thank god.” He has to be awake enough to talk to management, but he’s done more with bad hangovers.

“Yeah, what a tough life you’ve got,” Tyler snorts, tapping a thumb against the wheel as he puts his car in drive.

“Well, now that I’m slumming it in Dallas with you,” Patrick jokes, and Tyler shoves his shoulder, mumbling something about assholes from New York.

Patrick grins, turning his face away towards the window to look out at the city, just a blur of lights outside the car.

 

*

 

When he regains consciousness early the next morning, it’s exactly 6 and his alarm’s blaring too close to his face. Patrick grunts, pushing himself up from—Tyler’s couch, he hopes, because the last thing he wants is to have to sneak out of some rando’s apartment in Dallas. Tyler must hear his alarm before he can turn it off, appearing from a doorway to the left with a serious bedhead and bleary eyes. “Turn that shit off, motherfucker,” he says, kind of slurring the words together, and Patrick finally manages to get his thumb to do what he wants it to.

“Fuck,” he mumbles into the cushion. If this is a precursor to how the fall’s going to be, then Patrick probably needs to reconsider who he hangs out with, though he still feels a little victorious about the number scrawled on the side of his arm, followed by ‘call me!’, not that he can remember a name, let alone a face. He allows himself two more minutes of suffering, then drags himself up, leaving Tyler a glass of water on the counter before he goes.

 

*

 

He’s waiting to board his flight back to Buffalo late that night when his phone lights up with a new Twitter notification. Thumbing it open, he blinks a few times:

_Had a great time with my buddy @88PKane last night. Welcome to the Stars, man._

Attached to the tweet is a picture he doesn’t remember taking, he and Tyler with heavy arms slung around each other’s shoulders as they lean in with big smiles. It’s a good picture, even if they do look drunk—in fact, it looks like there’s some beer spilt on Tyler’s jeans—and he saves it to his phone without thinking about it too much.

The trip itself has been tiring, not that he’s been straining himself physically, and then there’s the guilt about avoiding Chicago altogether; he’d split for New York as soon as the Blackhawks’ season ended, unable to look anyone in the eye once his deal with the Stars became news, and it kind of feels like he’s hiding, now. He’s well aware there are plenty of his teammates— _old teammates_ , he reminds himself—still in the city, most of whom have texted him several times (at one point he had about seven missed calls from Sharp and Versteeg alone) since his departure, but if they’re pissed at him, he really, really doesn’t want to know. It’s not a great trait of his. Everyone who knows Pat Kane knows he loves a good argument, won’t back down from a confrontation, except this time he feels more like a dog with its tail between its legs, inexplicably guilty even though he had, _has_ , his reasons for leaving, and so did the organization, for that matter.

It’s just, he thinks that maybe if he gives people enough time to settle from this they won’t be as inclined to hold it against him. He knows it’s an irrational mindset but he’s too stubborn to do anything differently at this point, so yeah. He’s going to Buffalo.

 

 

 

 

**AUGUST**

Once he gets home to his house in Buffalo he doesn’t quite know what to do with himself, so he works out a lot, thinks about redecorating (it doesn’t happen), hangs out with a few friends, and texts Tyler. The first is a given and his buddies from home are some of the few people he feels like he can be around in an honest way, but the last thing is, well, new. At first it’s not much, just cursory snapchats of shitty prepared dinners or messages about a good work out, except then those morph into casual but steady conversations throughout each day. All of it’s easy, doesn’t feel like an obligation the way texting usually does for Patrick, and he ends up being way less lonely than he typically gets over the summer.

Of course, his family’s also around, and eventually he drags himself over for a weekend after a week and a half of bumming around by himself. Patrick sheepishly brings a nice bottle of wine and some expensive cheese, because he knows he’s been pretty absent, but his mom doesn’t give him shit, just raises her eyebrows and thanks him for the wine.

His dad’s out back grilling steaks, and once he gives Jackie a hug he steps outside onto the patio to help with the food.

“Hey, bud,” his dad says, quiet in his familiar way, and something in Patrick relaxes even though he knows he didn’t have to be worried, at least not with his family.

“Hey,” he says back, swallowing the urge to say more for the moment. “Need a hand?”

“I think I’ve got it all covered for now, but, uh, actually—there’s a platter your mom left in the kitchen for the steaks, will you grab that?”

Patrick does, and when he brings it out his dad’s looking at the meat with way more contemplation than it needs, so he knows he’s about to get officially talked to.

“You know, when the news broke about you signing with the Stars, I was worried,” says his dad.

Patrick blinks and doesn’t say anything. Sometimes it takes his dad a little while to get the words out, since he likes to think about what he’s saying, but he’ll get there, and Patrick knows to wait.

“Anyway, we obviously knew you were talking to Brisson, maybe looking to sign with the Sabres, and I thought you might—might be disappointed, I guess. And I didn’t really understand why you wanted to leave the Hawks, you know? I think a lot of people don’t get that.” His dad’s looking at him, again, and his tone’s not sharp but his gaze is. “You’ve done your interviews, I know, all that, but you might want to think about something more personal, you know? Explain yourself better to the people who really care. Because… look, I know you’re moving on, and I get that about you. It’s just how you are. But it seems to me that a lot of people still feel like you’re leaving a lot behind.” The inflection at the end suggests that his dad’s asking, more than anything, and that’s a comfort even if nothing else is.

Patrick sighs and shrugs, still unsure of what to say. He knows he didn’t go about this the right way, at least not with the people he considers himself closest to. Sure, on the professional side he dotted every i and crossed his t’s, but he never made the effort to talk to, say, Sharpy. Jonny. His sisters, even, and definitely not his parents, so solidified in the fact that this was something he’d wanted to do on his own.

“Hey, I’m not pushing,” his dad says, then, and the atmosphere lightens somewhat. “But I’m here to talk, or if you’re trying to figure out what to say, you know?”

“Yeah,” Patrick says, clearing his throat. “I guess I just, I don’t know, wanted to give people time to adjust before apologizing for something I’m not even sorry for.” It sounds too defensive, and maybe that’s the biggest issue, here, that he still feels like he’s not allowed to do this for himself, like he’s not grateful for everything he had while he was with Chicago.

“You don’t need to apologize for it, Patty, that’s not what I’m saying. But you built a lot of good relationships in Chicago, right? Don’t let those fall away just because you’re moving forward.”

His dad’s right and he’s too self-aware to deny it. That doesn’t make it any easier to face the fire—and it’s not even fire, really, just making sure he’s still got friends—but he’s sick of feeling like a coward, so that night he books a layover in Chicago on the way to Dallas at the end of the summer.

 _Did you know everyone’s mad at me_ , he sends to Tyler, much later. Something about lying in his childhood bed makes him feel like a kid again, too open about everything, as if that makes it okay to open up to Tyler right now. He’s also a little buzzed, which helps. He doesn’t think it’ll be poorly received, at least, and soon enough his phone chimes.

_for what? taking advantage of a new opportunity?_

_For leaving other opportunities behind, more like,_ he replies, not totally surprised but still a little pleased that Tyler picked up on what he was saying.

_this is hockey. if they can’t understand you wanting to find a new mountain to climb, get better friends_

And that’s—somehow, inexplicably, he feels better. Not that Tyler really said anything new, but the way it’s phrased reminds him of how he’s always viewed hockey: as a challenge, not as something to conquer but as something to grow at, to push to excel in whether he’s at his best or at his worst. He had his time in Chicago and it was more than he could’ve asked for, and now he’s going to Dallas because he still has room to grow.

 _Bro, I like you_ , he sends, feeling warm, and passes out before he can read Tyler’s response.

He wakes up to a cheesy snapchat of Tyler’s face, wide grin and what he thinks is Marshall’s snout in the corner, and he debates screenshotting it before taking his thumb off the image.

 

*

 

When he touches down in Chicago, Patrick’s tense for maybe the first time ever. It no longer feels quite like coming home, not that the city’s at all foreign, and when he grabs a cab he realizes he’s not sure where to go.

Patrick must be silent for a minute too long, because the cab driver turns to look at him, questioning. “Buddy, where ya headed?”

He lets out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding, forcing himself to relax. Part of him had been certain he’d get bombarded with the kind of hatred that comes from betrayal by all of Chicago. Maybe that’s coming, but at least this particular cab driver doesn’t seem to give a rat’s ass who he is, or doesn’t know at all. Patrick will take it. He debates for another half-second, then rattles off Sharpy’s address before he can second-guess himself.

Of course, he’s not even positive Sharpy’s home; he didn't bother to call beforehand, so when he shows up, bags in hand, he feels vaguely pathetic.

Still, Abby lets him in with a smile, same as always, and within five minutes he and Sharpy are sitting at the coffee table in the living room, cold Coronas in hand.

“Long time no see. Or hear, for that matter,” Sharpy says.

Patrick adjusts the hat on his head sheepishly, not sure what to do with his hands. “Yeah, I,” he starts, then has to clear his throat, voice cracking on the second syllable. “I’m sorry,” he tries again, and he means it. “I’m sorry I dipped out without saying anything, I just…didn’t want you to be pissed,” he finishes lamely.

Sharpy raises both eyebrows. “As if this made anything better?”

Patrick looks at the floor.

“Look, no one’s mad. No one hates you. But we’ve all heard you media answers, heard from Q. Why don’t you walk me through it yourself.”

And that’s—fair. Patrick lifts his head, owes Sharpy that much. “You know it was mutual, right?” he says. “Like, shit, you know better than anyone that I wanted to end up on the Sabres eventually. Obviously that didn’t happen,” he shakes his head, “but when they called me in to talk at the end of the season… I mean, the consensus was that they’d keep me if I really wanted to stay, but I wasn’t… I’m not what the Hawks need right now. Not with the salary cap, all the younger guys, and shit, we needed that draft pick and the new guys. You know it, I know it.” Patrick exhales. It’s more than he’s said at once to anyone in months, almost, and he fucks around with his hat again. “I wouldn’t have left if it wasn’t mutual, if it wasn’t what the team needed. At least not yet,” he amends, figures he can be fully honest at this point.

“Yeah, we all know you’re not that noble,” Sharpy scoffs, setting his beer down. “I pretty much knew all that, but shit, Peeks, it would’ve been nice to hear from you first. Or at least not months later.”

“I know,” he says, wincing. “I’m a shithead. But—we're good, right? Like, if I’m around, I can stop by and see the girls? And you, I guess,” he adds, making a face, but he’s serious.

Sharpy laughs, shaking his head, and something in Patrick loosens. “Of course we’re good. We’ll always be good. I mean, if you’d ended up on the Canucks, I don’t know, but otherwise…”

“Fuck off, as if I’d ever play for a Canadian team by choice.” Patrick licks his lips and takes a quick swig of beer. “They even tried to give me some input,” he says, thinking about all his talks with Stan, everyone else. “The Sabres just weren’t offering enough to make it worth it.”

Sharpy’s quiet for a moment, then— “You been to see anyone else, yet? Most of the guys are around.”

“Yeah? Yeah, no, I basically came here straight from the airport,” he says.

“Aw, Peeks, I’m touched. Look, I’ll set something up for tonight. They’ll be happy to see you,” Sharpy says, pulling his phone out.

“Fuckin’ hope so,” Patrick mutters.

 

*

 

Sharpy just ends up inviting whoever’s available over for barbeque later, sending Patrick to the store to stock up on meat and beer. He grabs a couple bottles of whiskey, too, figuring that even if no one breaks into it tonight Sharpy will appreciate it. He still isn’t really sure how long he’s staying—probably not more than a few days—but Abby’s already set his bags in the guest room, so he might not even have to get a hotel room.

When he gets back, Sharpy’s heating up the grill and shooting the shit with Jonny and Duncs. For a second, Patrick’s frozen at the screen door, nervous all over again, but shit—he spent years with these guys, won and lost with them, so he puts the whiskey on the counter and brings the rest outside. He’s kind of sick of acting like a pussy, actually.

“Look what the cat dragged in,” Jonny whistles, but both he and Duncs are grinning, and Patrick laughs, setting the bags by the grill for Sharpy to deal with and giving them each a quick hug.

“How ya been, man?” Duncs says, grabbing a couple beers. He passes one to Patrick, says, “Toews can get his own.”

Patrick takes a swig, wiping his mouth on the back of his hand. “I’ve been good. Been at home for a little while,” he says.

“You been working out?” Jonny says, pinching at Patrick’s bicep.

Patrick scoffs. “Of course. Gotta be ready to beat you fuckers,” he says, then worries that it’s too soon, too much of a betrayal, even though that’s not what this—him leaving the Hawks—was ever supposed to be.

Jonny and Duncs just laugh, though, Sharpy occupied by the grill. “Yeah, in your fucking dreams,” Jonny says, competitive as ever.

Patrick smirks, rolling his yes. “Anyone else making their way over, or am I stuck with you?”

Turns out Hammer and Leddy can also make it, Seabs and Richards trailing in a little later.

“I’m surrounded by d-men, shit,” Patrick laughs, later, five beers in with some whiskey on the side. He thinks at least one of the two bottles he bought is down to the dregs. He’s feeling loose and happy, warm summer air taking the edge off.

“The fuck are we, chopped liver?” Sharpy says, gesturing to Jonny and Brad. Leddy lets out a snort.

Everyone gets progressively drunker, until Patrick doesn’t really have any idea what anyone’s talking about, tuning out once Jonny starts talking seriously about yoga. He sent a snapchat around of him and Richards earlier, and his phone lights up in his hand, notification of a new snap from Tyler.

“Whatcha grinning about over there, Peeks?” Seabs mocks. He’s not quite slurring his works, but his eyes are a little glassy. “Got a girl in Dallas already?”

Patrick flips him off, opening the snap to see Tyler making a sad face at him. The caption reads, _ur making me jealous bro!!_

“Just Seguin,” Patrick answers, opting to send a text response instead of trying to take a selfie in front of everyone.

 _Xoxoxo_ , he sends, mostly to be a dick.

Eventually people sober up enough to make their way home, though it’s past two by the time that happens, and Patrick’s lazy and relaxed, not all that keen on getting out of his chair to help Sharpy clean up. He does anyway; he’s got manners, and this was more than he’d really expected out of this trip to begin with.

Bumping shoulders with Sharpy on his way inside, he manages to grab most of the empty bottles, going back out to get the plates while Sharpy cleans the grill. They’re both going to be tired in the morning, and he hopes Sharpy doesn’t have any early plans, doesn’t want to mess up anyone’s schedule more than he already has.

“Hey,” he says quietly, once they’re both heading in for good. “Thank you,” he says.

Sharpy actually looks confused. “For what?”

“Oh, come on. For, for doing this for me. You didn’t have to. But it was, uh. Good to see everyone.” Patrick scratches the back of his neck. They’re paused outside the door, still quiet, because Abby and the girls are long since asleep.

“Pat, this wasn’t just some _favor_. I’m glad you’re here, so are the guys. It’s not like it’s a show just because you’re on another team. I mean, fuck, this is hockey. Few guys expect to stay on one team their whole careers.”

Patrick doesn’t really know what to say to that, knows it wouldn’t be productive to mention how people assumed he’d be a Hawk for life, so he pulls Sharpy in for a hug, longer this time, because probably the next time he’ll be in Chicago will be when they play each other, on opposite sides, and Sharpy’s been like a brother to him. Still is.

“Alright. Let’s go the fuck to bed,” Patrick says after a moment, gruff, thankful when Sharpy just nods and follows him inside.

 

*

 

Realizing there are actually a few more people he could see, Patrick sticks around for a couple more days, just to say some real goodbyes, stop in to see Stan and the family again.

It feels almost like a last hurrah, something he has to get out of his system before he can say goodbye for real, despite knowing he’ll be back during the season, and Patrick has the tendency to get sentimental. He stops by his favorite sandwich place with Jonny, gets a cheesy picture by the Bean with Sharpy, Abby, and the girls.

Yeah, it’s bittersweet, but when Patrick boards his plane he feels better, more settled than he has in months. Like he’s got feet on solid ground again. He makes it back to Buffalo for that round of goodbyes, and then it’s on to Dallas, and he can’t even say he’s not a little glad to be going.

He shoots off a quick text to the realtor Brisson put him in touch with while he’s getting on his flight to Dallas, lets her know that he’s on his way and that he’s interested in the building Seguin and the Benns live in. Tyler already let him know it’d be cool for him to stay there, and that makes it easier for Patrick, too, who’s never had the patience for apartment-hunting. Besides, the quicker he can make friends with his new teammates, the easier everything’s going to be, and he’s grateful to Tyler, a little mollified that he’s got a buddy already on the team that’s more than just a friendly acquaintance from the league or the All Star Weekend.

When his flight touches down, Patrick’s legitimately ready to get started with everything in Dallas, finally, and it’s honestly the best he’s felt since 2013.

 

 

 

 

**SEPTEMBER**

“Okay, let’s change it up. Kane, I want you with Seguin and Benn, we’ll try it.”

Ruff’s coaching is similar to Q’s in some ways, Patrick recognizes, since they’re both blunt and not afraid to mix things up, but he also knows that Ruff tends to stick with something that’s working, and it’ll be a relief to hopefully stay put on one line. Patrick’s been through a blender of linemates, some worse than others, because Q had the tendency to shift people around without ever giving them a chance to settle in—it’s something Patrick won’t miss at all.

Patrick nods, though the motion gets lost in his helmet, and hops over the bench to join Tyler and Benn on the ice.

“Ready to join the big leagues, Kaner?” Tyler chirps, knocking at Patrick’s stick.

“Actually, I’m doing you guys a favor,” he retorts, getting into position at right wing.

Ruff blows the whistle.

The drill is a variation of a three-on-two, not overly easy or too difficult, but the three of them make the d-men look like children, at least on the first go, and shit, Patrick almost forgot what it was like to play with linemates at his own caliber.

Clapping a couple times, Ruff tells them to go again, cycling through the drill a few times before he’s satisfied that what he’s seeing is replicable.

Goligoski and Klingberg get it together after the first try, but Patrick can tell there’s good chemistry here; it’s a bit like skating with Toews circa 2010, only better and with two linemates who know how to read each other and will be able to read him once the season starts. After scoring a couple fancy goals off clean passes from Tyler and Benn, along with a few assists, Ruff rotates them out, laughing with the rest of the guys when they make comments about showing off. Patrick grins at Tyler, unabashedly happy, and Tyler bumps his glove against Patrick’s arm, standing close as they watch the second line take the ice.

“Good stuff, Kane,” Benn says from his left, and Patrick nods, smile still on his face.

“Yeah, we gotta keep it up.”

Obviously one practice isn’t enough to go on, Patrick knows that, but he can tell everyone’s feeling pretty solid by the end of practice, Coach Ruff included. It’s a good feeling, to know he can fit in here more seamlessly than he was expecting. Not that Patrick felt he really had to prove himself, per se, but he likes being able to believe he made the right call, agreeing to come here.

He’s undressing in the locker room afterwards while Ruff says a few things about today’s practice and what’s in store for tomorrow, and he tunes in and out, mostly thinking about how simultaneously strange and incredible it is to be back on the ice with a totally different team, can't wait to learn new playing styles, pick up a few more tricks. Eventually Ruff finishes—it doesn’t take long, he’s a concise guy—and he makes his way towards the door.

As he’s about to leave, Ruff pauses by Patrick’s stall. Patrick glances around; no one’s paying attention, and he’s glad for it when Ruff claps him on the shoulder and says, “You know, if I was still with the Sabres I would’ve signed you there too, but I really think you’ll fit in here.”

Patrick’s stunned enough that his ‘thanks’ comes out as a stutter, but once Ruff’s out the door he lets himself smile.

At this point, he and Tyler and whoever else have a routine, grabbing lunch after practice, so he finds Tyler and Benn waiting when he gets out to the parking lot. By September, Chicago’s typically got a bit of bite in the air some days, but Dallas is as hot as ever, which he’s honestly starting to embrace; it’s not like it doesn’t feel good after being in the chill of the rink.

He walks over to where they’re standing, smirking as he says, “Where to?”

“Sandwich place, then Call of Duty?” Benn suggests, shielding his eyes against the sun.

“Fuck _yes_ , I’ve been craving the Meat Lover all day,” Patrick groans, slapping a dramatic hand against his stomach.

“Oh, yeah, we know _all_ about your meat cravings, Pat,” Tyler says, waggling his eyebrows.

“I guess you would know, Segs, what with how into me you are,” Patrick shoots back. Tyler just raises his eyebrows, funny smile playing at his lips.

Benn snorts. “Sorry, Kaner, but even Segsy, in all his bad taste, isn’t into you.”

“Fuck off, I don’t have bad taste.”

“Remember Janet? From Hooters?” Benn prods, and Tyler rolls his eyes, flipping Benn off before he unlocks his Jeep and they pile in, Patrick in the back.

This is where he feels off-kilter, that general sense of missing out that Patrick hasn’t felt in Chicago in years, and while he knows it’ll dissipate with time, it still sucks to not be in on all the jokes, to be the odd guy out for once. Tyler must pick up on Patrick’s silence, though, because after a moment he changes the subject to the start of the Cowboys’ season, and while Patrick’s never been a big football fan outside of the Bills he can keep up. He kicks Tyler’s seat as a thank you, chirps Benn for preferring basketball.

“Stop calling me Benn, Jesus, I’m your captain,” Benn says, choking on a laugh after Patrick’s thrown out a particularly filthy insult.

“Yeah, yeah, alright,” Patrick says. Old habits for players on other teams—hard to let go of, but Patrick’s still not used to thinking of the Stars as _his_ team.

 

 

 

 

**OCTOBER**

They have a midday game against the Panthers early in October, what would have been an easy win even without Patrick’s four point night, and he’s in such a good mood afterwards in the locker room that he’s not expecting the question when it comes during his post-game.

“What do you have to say to people who claim you’re just trying to be the big fish in a small pond here in Dallas?”

It’s a middle-aged reporter, not someone Patrick’s seen around before, and the snide tone of his voice makes Patrick want to punch him in throat.

He narrowly avoids snorting his derision before he answers, and hopes his annoyance isn’t as clear on his face as he feels it. “I don’t think you could call Dallas a small pond, not with the team we’ve got here.” It feels good to say _we_ and mean it. “And if we’re talking big fish," he continues, "you might want to go see Segsy over there, considering he’s the one with the point streak. Hey, congrats, buddy!” he calls over, a little impertinent, because questions like this one piss him off and he just wants to laugh and move on.

Tyler gives him a salute in the middle of his own post-game, and Patrick only gets a few more—thankfully tamer—questions before he’s done. No matter what he does, he just can’t seem to escape those who think he’s the guy who punched a cab driver years ago, some one-trick forward with an asshole personality. Rationally, he knows that comes with the territory, but it still burns in a way that gets under his skin, and he rubs at his wrist unconsciously until the reporters trickle out of the room.

He finishes getting undressed in silence, ready to go home and sack out on his couch with a beer, but then Tyler’s at his shoulder, close enough that Patrick can feel his body heat. “What,” he says.

“‘What,’” Tyler parrots, “‘do you have to say to people who claim you’re just trying to be the big fish in a small pond here in Dallas?’ That’s some of the biggest bullshit I’ve ever heard. I mean, fuck, the guy must be a goddamn Canucks fan.”

Funny how rivalries carry over after a trade, like they’re that personal, Patrick thinks. Like, he’ll probably always hate the Blues more than any other team.

He shrugs at Tyler, determined to hold onto his newly-minted bad mood, but he can feel it slipping, huffs out a laugh in spite of himself. “I’ve gotten a lot of dumb questions, but I think that was one of the worst,” he says as he stands, stretching a little. “Not to mention fucking insulting. I’m sorry they think I’m so much better than you,” he grins, all teeth. “Come over? Beer and FIFA?”

“Yeah, obviously,” Tyler grins, swiveling to leave the locker room. “Bet I beat ya back,” he adds, voice strangled as he breaks into a run toward the parking lot, and Patrick’s at the disadvantage here—his legs are shorter, and he’s fast but so is Tyler—so Tyler’s already got his keys in the ignition, window rolled down by the time Patrick gets to his car.

“Motherfucker,” Patrick says, though his grin kind of downplays the insult, and Tyler drives off laughing.

 

*

 

Patrick decides to stop for food on the way back, so by the time he gets home Tyler’s already let himself in and made himself comfortable on Patrick’s couch.

“It’s like I somehow got married without realizing it,” he mutters, kicking the door shut behind him.

Tyler laughs and shrugs, picking his hands off his lap to catch the burger Patrick tosses at him. It misses his face, barely. “You’re just not used to the company. All you had back in Chicago was Toews, bundle of joy that he is,” Tyler says, unwrapping his food and shoving an unhealthy bite into his mouth.

Patrick rolls his eyes, joining Tyler on the couch with a couple beers in hand; Tyler’s already made his way through one. “Mm, yeah. That was actually why I decided to leave. One friend, and he was _Canadian_ ,” he says, heavy on the sarcasm.

“I’m so offended,” Tyler says, mouth full, “by how much hostility you’ve got towards my country. Someone’s a little fucking bitter about how many Olympic gold medals he’s got. Which would be exactly…none.”

“Canada deserves you,” Patrick says, can’t be bothered to take either hand off his burger to flip Tyler off.

“Hey, it’s not your fault, man. One man can’t win a game,” Tyler says sagely, thumbing over the remote until FIFA shows up on the television screen. He presses his foot into Patrick’s thigh, stretching out on the couch, and when he doesn’t move away Patrick just shrugs to himself, getting comfortable.

They play for a while, both tired enough from the game that they zone out to the monotony of it, and when Patrick finally blinks to alertness his eyes are gritty and the sun’s starting to go down.

“Shit. What time is it?” he groans, bumping Tyler’s ankle accidentally as he raises his arms to stretch.

“Ahhh.” Tyler sets his console down and pulls his phone out from beneath his leg. “Almost eight. You hungry again yet? We could do dinner…”

“Yeah, I could eat,” Patrick says. He doesn’t make any moves to get up, though, muscles a little stiff from sitting still for so long.

Tyler’s more productive, on his feet and looking a lot more energized than Patrick feels, and it takes him a second to realize Tyler’s offering him a hand.

Patrick takes it, warm callouses of Tyler’s palm catching on his own, and Patrick swallows against the unexpected flash of heat he feels at that, lets Tyler pull him up. It’s weird, for a second, standing too close in his too-dark apartment, and the look on Tyler’s face…Patrick almost thinks Tyler’s going to do something crazy, like—kiss him. Thinks, wildly, that maybe he’d let him.

But then someone’s phone chimes and the moment’s broken, and Patrick’s left to wonder if it was all in his head, what it even was in the first place.

 

 *

 

After easing into the season with mostly wins, Patrick spends a couple of games bouncing between the first and second lines. The thing is, as well as he fits with Jamie and Tyler, he and Tyler are both goal scorers, and Ruff is smart to spread the wealth a bit this early in the season, just in case something works better. Their power play is nearly unstoppable, first in the league. Not that he’s trying to think about it more than abstractly, but Patrick’s got an ego just like everyone else, and the fact that he’s leading the league in goals, even this early on, is nice. Makes him feel like things are falling into place the way they should.

Of course, streaks of good luck rarely last long in the NHL, and they drop four straight games at the end of the month, at which point Ruff decides he's better off on the top line for good. The losses are a harsh kick back to reality. Honestly, Patrick’s been waiting for some regret to sink in at leaving Chicago, an established Cup contender, only nothing he’s experienced in Dallas so far has been all that different from any of his past few seasons in Chicago. Some wins, some losses. Some good, some shitty. It’s hockey, only now he at least has consistent linemates.

What helps, he thinks, is that he’s got Tyler at his back most of the time, a physical reminder that leaving the so-called better team isn’t always the worst thing in the world. And really, Tyler welcomed him onto this team with open arms, let himself into Patrick’s space and stayed there like he belongs, like they’re back in Switzerland, alone in a foreign country and dependent on each other.

It’s not like Patrick’s oblivious to the way Tyler looks at him, sometimes, though he’s not sure if it’s just lingering admiration from his younger days or what. The ‘or what’ sits at the base of his spine as a cautious uncertainty, but Patrick leaves it alone, has no idea what he'd do with the information.

He doesn’t say anything when Tyler sits too close on the couch, body radiating heat that Patrick can feel in his bones. Doesn’t say anything when Tyler’s gaze slips away, down from his eyes. Ignores the curl of heat that results from a lingering touch, or the way Tyler’s smile is always brightest when he’s laughing at something Patrick said. 

 

 

 

 

**NOVEMBER**

After another couple weeks of frustrating games they come out big in Nashville, a 5-0 win that’s got everyone itching to celebrate. Patrick’s been keeping a fairly low profile, even by his own standards, and he’s so goddamn ready to let loose. He and Tyler and Val pile into a cab as soon as they’re dressed for the clubs, the rest of the team close behind. Nashville’s not warm, not in November, but it’s not bitterly cold the way it generally is farther north. Patrick feels electric, wired, wants to chase that feeling, and he knocks his knee against Tyler’s on the ride. Tyler glances at him, and fuck—his expression’s loaded, enough that Patrick has to look away before he has to figure out what to make of it. There’s a strange tension sitting under his skin, one that’s been there for a while, that he’s maybe starting to figure out, and it’s amplified when Tyler leaves his leg pressed to Patrick’s. He swallows, grateful when they pull up to the club.

None of them have to wait in line, and the music’s loud, electronic and dirty. When Tyler puts a hand on Patrick’s shoulder and steers him to the bar he goes easily, feeling reckless and a bit like he’s playing catch-up in whatever game Tyler’s already playing.

“Four tequila shots,” Tyler says to the bartender.

Patrick’s eyes catch Tyler’s as he’s licking the salt off his hand, and he suppresses a shiver. What the _fuck_ , he thinks, only the way Tyler’s looking at him isn’t exactly new. Patrick’s seeing things a little more clearly, then, definitely late to the game but picking up the pace all the same. The tequila is smooth going down, top shelf stuff, and he takes the other shot quickly, forcing his gaze away from Tyler’s.

Someone knocks into him from behind and normally Patrick’s not the kind of guy to ignore that, generally irritated by people getting in his space, but he just moves with it, closer to Tyler, trying to figure out—something. He’s nervous, almost, and that’s not going to fly, not tonight, so he orders them another round, and then another after that, and by the time they head over to where the guys are, he’s a little less sober and Tyler’s pretty much plastered to his back as they walk.

“Paaaat,” Val says, dragging his name out like he always does when he’s hammered. Patrick smirks and grabs the beer sitting in front of him at the table, chugging the rest of it while Val looks on drunkenly.

“Yeah, hey, Val,” he says when he’s done, figuring the kid probably didn’t need it anyway.

“He was gonna let you know that chick over there’s been eyeing you for a while,” Spezza cuts in. Patrick follows his gaze, sharply conscious of Tyler at his side, heat bleeding through the cotton of his shirt. Sure enough, there’s a hot brunette standing with a couple friends, and when she catches his gaze she gives him a pretty smile.

“Thanks,” he says, and for a second, he wants to turn around and ask Tyler—what? If it’s okay? What the fuck? Patrick sucks in a breath and reminds himself that whatever pull he’s feeling toward Tyler is just—it’s nothing. Nothing he needs to pay any real attention to.

Determined, he heads over to the girl, asks her name and forgets it almost as soon as she says it, and pulls her out to the dance floor. She goes easily, hands around his neck as he slides his around her waist, her body a lithe, solid heat against his.

Patrick’s a good enough dancer when he’s sober, but drunk, he’s looser, cares less, and it works for him. If his hands slip a little lower, she either doesn’t notice or doesn’t give a shit. They’re dancing a slow grind, all hips, and Patrick feels like he’s been on edge for fucking _ever_ , turned on and looking for something, some kind of release. He’s just thinking maybe he can get this girl to suck him off in the bathroom, risky as that kind of behavior is, when another guy comes up behind her, deliberate, and Patrick’s about to say something, only it’s _Tyler_ , of course it is. If he was less drunk, maybe he would back off, recognize the line they’ve been toeing as a bad idea, but he’s not. He’s not, and when Tyler presses in close the girl just goes with it, holding her weight a little differently between them to accommodate both.

It’s so fucking hot, he realizes, Tyler’s big hands on this girl's waist, this close to Patrick’s, moving against her with ease. Patrick’s mouth goes dry with want, only he’s thinking less about the girl, can’t help the way his heart rate picks up when Tyler’s eyes drop to Patrick’s mouth.

“Fuck,” he says out loud, voice lost in the bass of the club, and his fingers slip a little against the girl's ass when Tyler’s hand brushes the skin of his arm. A second’s touch at best, and it says something that that’s what gets Patrick from halfway there to fully hard. This, of all things, clears his head a little, enough that he realizes he needs to get the fuck out of here before he does something stupid and career-ruining, like push this chick out of the way and make out with Tyler the way he’s wanted to for months, _months_.

That’s new, putting words to it, but unsurprising all the same. He kisses the girl on the cheek, making an excuse she probably can’t hear before heading to the door.

The guys don’t need a goodbye—everyone’s too drunk to be paying much attention, he figures. Shaking his head, he thinks about how this is maybe the first time he’s turned down a hook up like that, and refuses to dwell on why. Except then Tyler’s standing outside with him, hand on his arm, and Patrick’s fucking buzzing with whatever this is, had wondered whether Tyler would follow but was too uncertain to let himself want it. Tyler slides into the cab after him, though, and Patrick thinks, maybe. Thinks, what the hell am I doing. Thinks _,_ Fuck it, I want this.

 

*

 

When they get back to the hotel, Patrick’s still wired as hell, can’t stop fidgeting in the elevator. Tyler’s not any better, glances more obvious than they’ve ever been, and Patrick feels like they’re balanced precariously on either side of a trip-wire, one wrong move away from a blast.

Patience has never been either of their strong suits, though, and this elevator’s taking forever, fuck, and Patrick opens his mouth just as Tyler blurts, “Can we just fucking—”

“Yeah, _god_ ,” Patrick cuts him off as he moves forward, closing the distance in two steps. They stand like that for a split second, suspended, before Tyler makes a noise and slides his fingers behind Patrick’s neck, pulling him in for the dirtiest kiss he’s ever been a part of.

There’s nothing slow about it, all clashing teeth and wet heat as Tyler slides his tongue into Patrick's open mouth, and Patrick’s fully hard before the elevator chimes. It’s almost impossible to make himself pull back when the door opens, but he reminds himself it’s necessary, and he adjusts himself in his pants, smirking when Tyler makes an appreciative noise in his throat.

“Come on,” he says, walking backwards just so he doesn’t have to look away from the blatant want on Tyler’s face. That works for a few steps until Tyler catches up, and for a moment he thinks Tyler’s just going to press him against the wall here and do whatever the hell he wants, and Patrick would probably fucking _let_ him.

But then Tyler reaches out, grips Patrick’s wrist and pulls him to their door, muttering ‘fuck’ when he can’t get the key in the slot fast enough. Patrick can’t help himself, grinds his hips into Tyler’s ass, and finally, Jesus _,_ he gets the door open.

“You’re such an asshole,” Tyler breathes, shoving Patrick back against the door once they’re inside.

Tyler has a good two, three inches on him but Patrick’s got muscle, and he flips them around easily, unsure about what he’s trying to do for a half second before he decides and drops to his knees, liquid courage spurring him on, and ignores how this hadn’t even been a possibility an hour ago. He’s running on instinct at this point. “Yeah?” Patrick says, undoing Tyler’s belt and pulling it out of his belt loops with a deft motion, soft _snick_  of it cutting the silence. “How about you shut up unless you’re saying my name.” Patrick gets Tyler’s jeans down to his thighs, pulling his briefs down with them with surprisingly steady hands. “Sound good?”

Tyler nods, face a little awed, which is kind of what Patrick was going for.

He takes Tyler’s cock in his hand, a heavy weight that he’s not used to aside from his own, and this is insane, not something he’s even entertained as a fantasy yet, so he says, “Just let me know if I fuck up, okay, this is new for me,” and then swipes his tongue across the head, a wave of satisfaction washing over him when Tyler shudders.

It’s different than eating girls out in a thousand ways, that’s apparent, and he runs his tongue along the length, getting it wet enough to slide easy into his mouth. Patrick knows what he likes and tries to emulate it, wrapping a hand around the base while he sinks down as far as he can go, choking a little when it hits his throat. “Fuck,” he coughs, pulling off to catch his breath, and it’s conceited but he kind of thought he’d be better at this.

“Pat,” Tyler says, and at least he sounds kind of breathless, “please get back on my dick.”

“Why don’t you make me,” Patrick retorts without thinking, instinctual to challenge even when he’s new to something, and, yeah, maybe that’s not something he’d hate.

“Seriously?” Tyler says. He drags his thumb over Patrick’s bottom lip, dick bobbing near his cheek.

“Yeah,” Patrick says, heart beating erratically in his chest, “You should. Fuck my mouth. Do it.”

Typical that his first venture into sucking cock is probably going to end with him gagging through tears, but damn if it’s not turning him on, whole different power dynamic than when he’s with a girl, and he palms his own cock through his jeans, desperate for the friction. Tyler’s saying something that Patrick completely misses, and then he’s got one hand in Patrick’s hair, the other on his dick, and he guides Patrick’s mouth there, like Patrick wouldn’t have gone willingly anyway.

“Like, tap my thigh or something if you wanna stop,” Tyler says, and then he’s moving his hips forward, cock sliding between Patrick’s lips, and Patrick groans, dick twitching in his jeans when Tyler takes that as a cue and fucks in farther, harder.

It’s not easy, breathing through his gag reflex, but there’s something addictive about the noises Tyler’s making, little grunts with each thrust, and shit, he likes the feel of a cock in his mouth, heavy and thick on his tongue. For all his experience he’s never let a girl take control like this, wouldn’t have even known how, and the fact that Tyler’s directing every motion is like nothing he’s ever been part of, something he wants to explore.

God, Patrick loves it, opens his mouth just wide enough to curl his lips in, and he presses his tongue beneath the head of Tyler’s cock each time he pulls out, loves the way it makes him groan and lose rhythm. He just kind of holds on, really, lets Tyler move and hold him in place and use his mouth, and Patrick drags his tongue along the underside of his cock best he can until Tyler’s motions become less smooth, more erratic, and his fingers tighten in Patrick’s hair, cock nudging the back of Patrick’s throat.

“Pat, shit, I’m gonna—”

As far as warnings go it’s not much, because two seconds later Patrick’s got a mouth full of come even as Tyler’s pulling out. He’s never considered himself a quitter so he swallows, finds he doesn’t really mind the taste.

“Sorry,” Tyler says, except he doesn’t sound it at all.

Patrick looks up at him and smirks, unzipping his jeans hastily because he’s so hard it’s starting to hurt, and he pulls his cock out as Tyler watches. That’s something else he likes, Tyler’s undivided focus, shameless in the way he watches Patrick. He starts to jerk himself off as slowly as he can stand, still on his knees, licking his lips to chase the taste of Tyler's come.

“You’re unbelievable,” Tyler says.

Patrick shrugs, feeling a little arrogant about it as he builds up a rhythm, biting his lip against a moan. “You want to watch?” he says, hoarse. “I’m not gonna complain. Or, you know, you could help me out.”

“I’d _love_ to watch, you’re so fucking hot like this,” Tyler says immediately, stumbling over the words. “But right now, I think I’d rather…” Trailing off, he pushes himself off the door and moves to kneel behind Patrick, thighs wide to bracket Patrick’s, and he reaches around, plastering himself to Patrick’s back as he removes Patrick’s hand from his cock and replaces it with his own.

Patrick can’t help himself, drops his head back against Tyler’s shoulder, and doesn’t bother holding in the desperate noise in his throat. “Fuck, yeah,” he groans, closing his eyes when Tyler laves his tongue over Patrick’s neck in time with his hand.

Clearly Tyler’s been paying attention because he tightens his index finger and thumb around the head with each flick of his wrist, just the way Patrick likes, and Patrick’s been on edge for too long, close before he even knows it’s happening.

“This isn’t going to take long,” he mumbles, turning his head to catch Tyler’s lips in a kiss, and when Tyler swipes his thumb over the head that’s it, he’s done, pulsing over Tyler’s fingers. Tyler jacks him through it until he’s shuddering, too sensitive, and he pulls Tyler’s hand off his cock when he can’t take anymore.

“Jesus Christ,” he says, and his voice is wrecked, sounds exactly like he’s just had a dick down his throat. Nice. The twinge in his knees makes him shift, and he moves out of Tyler’s hold, pushing himself up onto his feet with some effort.

Tyler hasn’t moved at all, blinking at the come on his hand before bringing his fingers to his mouth and licking them clean.

Patrick chokes on a laugh. “Fucking porn star,” he says, and that earns him a smug look from Tyler, who just shrugs.

“I’ve done this before.”

Patrick raises his eyebrows, but he’s not altogether surprised; it’s not like Tyler’s ever bothered to hide his interest, which is probably the only reason they're even here right now. Patrick's not complaining.

“You gonna freak out?” Tyler asks, then, a little cautiously, like he’s afraid Patrick might actually say yes, or worse. Which Patrick doesn’t really feel is warranted, honestly, but he also has no idea as to what Tyler’s done in the past, who he’s been with, so he weighs Tyler’s question seriously before answering. He's not drunk anymore, not really, but he’s not quite sober, either, and he’s never been great at saying what’s on his mind anyway so he tries his best to actually say something intelligible.

“I don’t… I don’t know. I don’t think so.” He frowns, licking his lips, force of habit. “It’s hard to explain, but I don’t feel surprised, I guess? Like I’d never really thought about it as a possibility, only once it was it felt right anyway.” Shrugging, he twists his mouth, trying to find the words. “Maybe it’ll hit me more later, but. I’ve never had a problem with other people, so why should I with myself? So I like dick too.” It’s strange, to say it out loud, but he feels pretty okay otherwise.

He definitely doesn’t feel like he’s about to have some kind of identity crisis about it, and hey, he’s always been the kind of guy to go with what he wants and not think too much about it. Sometimes it gets him into trouble, but generally it works out in his favor. He laughs, then, smirk spreading across his lips. “ _Really_ liked having your dick in my mouth, I should say,” he says. Tyler lets out a pleased, surprised laugh at that, and Patrick grins, happy to hear it.

“You think I’m hot, eh?” Tyler says after a comfortable silence, grin a little smug. Whatever. Patrick doesn’t mind admitting it.

“And you think the sun shines out my ass,” Patrick counters, even though he can feel his cheeks getting hot, unused to this kind of unabashed flirting with a teammate, fuck. “I’ve seen the videos. You were a little star-struck, back in the day. Liked the mullet.”

Tyler’s a little pink too, at least, and it’s not a lingering flush from the orgasm. “Your ego’s showing,” he says, trying for snide and mostly failing. “Don’t worry, Kaner, I think you’re hot too.” He waggles his eyebrows, and Patrick wishes he could reach a pillow to throw at Tyler’s face.

The late night is catching up with him now, not to mention the fucking blowjob, and he scrubs a hand through his hair, down over his face. “Bed?” he asks, voice lagging with a hint of uncertainty.

“Yeah, Pat,” Tyler says, pushing himself to his feet with a small grunt. They’re standing close, again, and Patrick flashes back to the night in Tyler’s living room, dark but for the television, when he’d been sure Tyler was going to do—something. This time he does, leaning in for a kiss. It’s less heated than earlier, gentler, but still charged, and it leaves Patrick breathless. “Let’s go to bed.”

 

*

 

No one’s all that talkative in the morning, most of the team hungover, and the flight’s early. Patrick and Tyler sit together at breakfast, but Patrick’s not chatty when he’s nursing a headache and neither is Tyler, so the silence isn’t anything but welcome. When they board the plane, Tyler sinks into the seat next to him, like usual. But the leaning in closer, the leg against his—those are new, and Patrick allows himself a private smile before settling in.

Halfway through the flight, Tyler presses the backs of his fingers into Patrick’s thigh, and Patrick tenses for a second, glances around before he’s confident that no one’s paying attention, and relaxes into returning the touch. It’s nothing he yearned after in Chicago, was perfectly content to hook up when he wanted and do his own thing in between, but he can’t deny he likes this, likes it more because it’s Tyler.

Once they’ve landed and grabbed their bags, Patrick nudges his shoulder into Tyler’s arm, says, “Up for some Halo when we get home?”

Tyler grins, warm around the edges, and Patrick flushes, both at the way Tyler’s looking at him and the fact that Dallas is now _home_.

“Sounds like a plan,” Tyler says. Patrick doesn’t know how to deal with Tyler’s attention the way it is now, so focused and open, even though it’s no different than the way Tyler’s been looking at him for months, since Switzerland, even. God. He shakes his head, catching the way Jamie’s not-so-discreetly glancing over at them from where he’s standing, and reminds himself that this is still private, can’t be anything but.

Adjusting the strap of his bag on his shoulder, he clears his throat, says, “Let’s go join the guys, eh?” and walks over, Tyler close behind.

Patrick relaxes some once it’s obvious that no one notices anything different, treats them normally. Like, clearly no one can tell Patrick’s now had a dick in his mouth, and while he wasn’t lying—he’s comfortable enough with himself not to freak out—he feels better that it’s not a change that others can identify outwardly.

That night is easy, same banter as always while they hang out, only now it’s just as easy to lean over and kiss Tyler on the couch, game controller still in his hands, Tyler’s tongue working into Patrick’s mouth in wicked ways.

“So this is going to be a thing we do,” Patrick says, later, after Tyler’s sucked him off. “Right? Because it’s—pretty great,” he laughs, twisting away when Tyler pinches his side. He could go up to his apartment, but Tyler’s bed is large, inviting, and he’s already here.

“Thanks,” Tyler quips, snarky as hell, and Patrick flips him off, understands that that means _yes_.

 

 

 

 

**DECEMBER**

Christmas comes and goes with little fanfare; Patrick goes home for not quite two days, _almost_ not worth the headache of flying on Christmas Eve, and then he’s on an early flight to Dallas for back to back games against the Blues, first at home and then away.

They win both games, playing particularly well in St. Louis, a clean, physical game that gives Tyler a three-point night, and then they play the Red Wings the day before New Year's Eve.

They lose to the Wings at home, and it’s bad. Maybe the worst loss of the season, if Patrick's being honest, fans filtering out of the arena by the time the third period starts, and the locker room is silent afterwards save for the shuffle of players getting undressed.

Patrick follows Tyler into his apartment anyway instead of heading for his own, fingers distracted with his own hair curling, still damp from his shower, against his neck in the humidity. He's content to sit on the couch and watch Sports Center, same as Tyler, so he grabs the remote and settles in. Tyler tosses him a beer without asking; they have practice the next morning, but a couple beers to take the edge off won’t hurt.

It’s mostly basketball highlights and Patrick zones out, only half listening to the drone of the television as he sinks into the couch. Tyler’s silent the way he gets when he’s in a dark mood, and Patrick knows to let him have it, knows that bugging him to talk won’t do either of them any good.

“Sometimes I just miss Boston,” Tyler says, out of the blue after twenty minutes of nothing, and Patrick blinks out of his stupor, turning to look at Tyler.

“Still?” he says, not really thinking about it. He doesn’t want to end up missing Chicago in two years’ time, three.

“Yeah,” Tyler says, a weird kind of energy in his tone that doesn’t bode well, Patrick thinks. “Still. Because this kind of loss was fucking—it wouldn’t have happened in Boston, they’re a good team, Cup contenders every year, and I lost that. Do you know how goddamn hard it is, going from that to this? To barely skating by in the first round, then losing before you even get close? Y’know,” he laughs, with a sharp bitterness that could cut steel, “I wish I could say _you_ understood, but you’ve got two rings and walked out anyway—you know what, never mind.” Tyler gets up, walks into the kitchen to recycle his bottle.

Patrick sits dumbly on the couch for a second, reeling at this, because for all the months he’s been here, been pretty damn close to Tyler, this hasn’t come out, at least not in so many words. And he might be wrong, but it sounds a little like resentment, and that’s really, really not what Patrick wants to hear. Part of him knows it’s just the shittiness of the game catching up to them, making Tyler more vicious than usual, but he still needs to clear this up, figure out if it’s going to be an actual problem for them. His heart’s beating uncomfortably fast in his chest and he gets up, feeling a little unbalanced.

Tyler’s standing hunched over the counter, gripping the edge so hard his knuckles are stretched thin, white, but he turns when Patrick comes to stand close.

“First of all, fuck you. You think this isn’t a change for me?” Patrick starts, knowing as soon as the words are out that he’s not coming at this the right way, too defensive for his own damn good.

Tyler cuts him off fast. “I was traded for being too fucking problematic. You left in a mutual decision. There’s a difference,” he says, sounding less angry now and more resigned, like it’s something he’s thought about a thousand times, probably has.

Patrick stands there for a second, certain that Tyler can hear his heart, it’s so loud in his ears. He chews on his bottom lip, trying to figure out where he should go with this when it’s clear Tyler’s not going to say anything else, give him any kind of leeway.

“Hey, Segs. Tyler,” Patrick says finally, sliding a hand behind Tyler’s head before he knows what he’s doing. They hook up regularly now, yeah, but they don’t do _this_ , so he’s grateful and slightly surprised when Tyler doesn’t move away.

There’s a lot more he could say, defend himself and his decision, but he knows this isn’t really about that at all: it’s about Tyler and all the shit he’s been dealing with since Boston, since a Cup loss that Patrick was very much involved with, and so he swallows the words, thinks for a minute before speaking.

“You’re a hockey player. Trades happen every year, it’s literally part of playing the game.” God, it sounds trite, but he needs to Tyler to understand that somehow they both ended up here for a reason, that it’s _good._

“And you know what? Boston wasn’t the right fucking place for you. No, fuck you, it wasn’t,” he stresses, when Tyler opens his mouth. “Sometimes… sometimes shit’s gotta happen before you can grow up. I promise you, I get that. But fuck that ‘problematic’ bullshit,” Patrick says, fingers twitching against the back of Tyler’s neck, “there’s no one I’d rather be playing with. And you’re a better hockey player here than you ever were in Boston, which is honestly what fucking matters.”

It’s a lot. Maybe too much. More than he’s ever said before, and he hates how vulnerable he’s just made himself but knows he wouldn’t take it back, not when he thinks it’s what Tyler needs to hear.

Tyler takes a sharp breath, eyes fixed on Patrick’s, and he runs his fingers along Patrick’s jaw, ghost of a touch. Patrick can’t hide the shiver, but fuck if he cares, skin hot beneath Tyler’s hand.

“No one you’d rather be playing with, eh?” Tyler says softly, whole different tone to his voice now, and as he closes the distance between them, Patrick’s eyes drop to Tyler’s mouth before he can help himself.

“No one,” Patrick says. The tension between them is taut, charged with something more than just sex, and yet that’s there too, obvious in Tyler’s dark gaze. He’s not sure if he’s reading this wrong, but— “Tyler. You should let me fuck you.”

Tyler’s swallow is an audible click. “Yeah. Yeah, fuck, I could do that.”

He turns, then, not looking back at Patrick at all as he walks to his bedroom, and Patrick scrambles to catch up, isn’t going to be the one left in the dust, here. His brain’s only half working, trying to process the fact that Tyler said yes, trying to figure out whether this is the final line to cross or if the lines fell away entirely back in November, the first time they did anything. It doesn’t matter right now, not really, because Tyler’s stripping his clothes off with a purpose in front of his bed, quirking an eyebrow at Patrick’s parted mouth.

“You need directions?” Tyler says, and yeah, his confidence is back. How could it not be, Patrick thinks, with that body, strong arms and fingers made for hockey, tight abs that Patrick loves to run his tongue over.

Patrick’s not exactly shy, either, so he snorts, flipping Tyler off before chucking his shirt and moving to undo his jeans, stepping out of them without breaking Tyler’s gaze. He’s half hard in his briefs already and he presses the heel of his palm to his dick, rubbing a little and making a noise in his throat at the friction before he takes his briefs off too.

Tyler’s breath catches—Patrick can hear it, fuck—and he reaches out, pulling Patrick against him, and for a second it’s just skin to skin, warmth and hard muscle as Patrick runs his hands over Tyler’s shoulders to his chest, hovering there briefly before pushing Tyler back onto the bed.

He goes down with a muffled _mmph_ , eyes bright as he smirks up at Patrick. He’s completely naked, fisting his dick lightly, not enough pressure to do much, and Patrick crawls over him, contemplating. Obviously he’s never done this with a guy, as Tyler’s been his first for everything in that regard, but it’s not like he wasn’t curious after getting Tyler’s dick in his mouth, so yeah, he looked up the logistics.

For a moment he just lets himself look, wondering at how goddamn turned on he is by the sight of Tyler, laid out before him, cock rigid and pink where it’s loosely gripped in his fist. Usually Tyler’s quippy, impatient, but for whatever reason he lets Patrick take his time, gasping a little when Patrick leans down to flick his tongue over the head of his dick, catching against his fingers.

It’s mostly explorative, not the end goal, but he’s had plenty of practice at this point, knows that running his tongue up from Tyler’s balls to the head gets him hottest, and he keeps at it for a good five minutes until Tyler’s panting, fingers clenching at the sheets.

“Pat,” he says, half a whine, and Patrick grins at him, taps his fingers against Tyler’s thigh.

“Lube?” he says, unsurprised when Tyler reaches to his left to open the night table drawer and pull out a small bottle.

“Have at it,” Tyler says, after he tosses it to Patrick.

He flicks the cap open with his thumb, drizzling enough onto his fingers to coat them entirely. He’s not nervous, exactly, been through enough unfamiliar territory with Tyler at this point that he trusts Tyler to let him know if he fucks anything up, but there’s still something like awe in his gut when he presses the tip of his index finger against the pucker of Tyler’s hole. “When’s the last time you…” Patrick trails off, pressing harder, in, to feel exactly how tight he is.

“It’s, uh…it’s been a while,” Tyler says. When Patrick looks up at him his eyes are closed, cheeks flushed pink. “But I can handle a lot,” he adds, and Patrick’s dick twitches at that.

“Yeah?” he says, watching the way Tyler’s hole clenches around his knuckle. He twists it experimentally, thinking it wouldn’t be difficult to add a second finger, so he does, lube easing the way.

“Jesus, you’re fucking tight,” he laughs, breathless. “What’s, like—should I just—” He scissors his fingers a little in answer to himself, testing the stretch as he slides them farther in.

Tyler’s body goes rigid and for a second Patrick thinks it’s discomfort, but Tyler says, “shit, there,” and Patrick quirks his fingers again, rubbing over what’s got to be Tyler’s prostate after he figures out the right spot, right angle.

It’s so hot, almost unexpectedly, the way Tyler’s abs tighten up, and he can’t take his eyes away as Tyler’s cock leaks a thick dribble of precome onto his stomach.

“Pat, Kaner,” Tyler’s saying, and Patrick knows he wants him to stop but it’s such a power trip, watching Tyler fall apart on his fingers. He adds a third eventually, marveling at how Tyler’s loosened up, and now that he knows a bit more what he’s doing he draws back, teasing, thumb pressed to the rim of his hole where it’s stretched around his fingers.

“Why haven’t we done this before,” he mutters, curling his fingers in just to see Tyler shudder.

Tyler grabs at the crook of his shoulder, fingers catching in Patrick’s hair, and says, “I don’t know, but could you fuck me at some point tonight?” The bossiness gets lost in the need coming through in his voice, but it’s enough of a push that Patrick nods, pressing the heel of his hand to his own aching cock one more time.

He’s reaching for the lube when he realizes there aren’t any condoms and he pauses. “Uh,” he says, “you got any—?”

Tyler shakes his head, biting his lip. “No, I, uh. Do we need it?”

Patrick’s clean, Tyler’s clean, they’ve sucked each other’s dicks enough times to have had the conversation before, so no, they really don’t need it.

“Thank _god_ ,” Patrick says, squeezing his dick at the base once before slicking it efficiently with lube.

Tyler’s not making any moves to get onto his hands and knees so Patrick goes with it, nudging at Tyler’s thighs with his knees until Tyler spreads them a little wider, around Patrick’s hips as he pushes the head of his cock against Tyler’s hole, a little self-tease.

“Shiiit,” he says, eyes wide. This part always got him hot whenever he fucked a girl, that first press inside, and it’s almost better now, Tyler’s arousal so much more viscerally evident. Even with the prep it’s tight, more than Patrick was expecting, and he gasps a little once he slips the head past the rim. His right hand’s on Tyler’s thigh, grip probably verging on painful, but Tyler just shifts down towards him at the same time as he moves his hips and he’s fully inside, not quite balls-deep.

It’s all he can do not to fuck in further but he holds himself still, waits until Tyler adjusts.

“Jesus, Pat, your cock,” Tyler says, voice strained, and he reaches down to grab his own thigh, pulling it back towards his body so that Patrick sinks just a little farther in.

“Oh my god,” Patrick moans, dropping his forehead to Tyler’s bent knee. His cock’s throbbing, practically, needs the friction of motion, and his hips keep trying to make these little aborted thrusts. This part’s new, never had to wait when he was fucking girls, and so when Tyler says, “okay, okay, fuck me,” it’s like something holy.

Patrick doesn’t need to be told twice, just widens his knees until he’s steady in his stance and pulls back, slow, slow, and then fucks back in all at once, slick slide around his cock so fucking good. His mouth falls open around a moan, and he wants to look at Tyler’s face but can’t drag his eyes away from Tyler’s ass where it's stretched tight and pink around his cock. He thrusts again, hips working into something of a rhythm, Tyler’s dick slapping back against his abdomen with the force of it.

“Fuuuck,” Tyler groans, turning his face into his bicep, other hand now braced against the headboard as Patrick leans over him for better leverage. Patrick can’t even think, all his nerves lit with sensation as he fucks into Tyler, and he presses his palm into the mattress, hips snapping roughly when Tyler gasps, “ _harder_.”

There’s no chance he’s going to last, not when it’s like this, Tyler clenching around the base of his cock each time the head rubs over his prostate. “Are you,” is all he can manage, caught on a breath as he grinds in against Tyler’s ass.

Tyler doesn’t answer, eyelashes fluttering, just wraps his fingers loosely around the head of his cock and then he’s coming, no warning, soundless, striping Patrick’s chest as he works his hips in short, hard thrusts.

Patrick groans, thrusts his cock into the impossible tightness of Tyler’s hole two, three more times, and then he’s following Tyler over the edge, cock pulsing as he pulls out, head catching on the rim.

He jerks himself through the rest of it, messing Tyler up even more while he takes in the sight, Tyler's face sweaty and red and so attractive. His right arm has started shaking from taking all his weight and he lets his elbow collapse, sinking onto Tyler as his cock gives one last twitch, jizz starting to leak out down Tyler’s crease. “God,” he says, muffled against the skin of Tyler’s shoulder.

Tyler grunts, free hand coming up to rest heavily on Patrick’s tricep. Tyler’s come is half-dried and spread into a mess between their bodies, but Patrick doesn’t care, doesn’t even want to move. The most he can do is huff a laugh at what got them here, nose nudging against Tyler’s collarbone.

“What,” Tyler says, voice a little hoarse.

“Just, like.” Patrick shakes his head, an aborted movement in the space between Tyler’s neck and shoulder. “I didn’t think this was what I’d be doing in Dallas. With you,” he clarifies unnecessarily.

Tyler hums, shifting under him until his legs are stretched out, relaxed now. Patrick shuts his eyes, content to lie in Tyler’s warmth even though they could both use a shower.

“Hey,” Tyler says eventually, just as Patrick’s starting to doze off.

Patrick turns his head, presses his lips to Tyler’s neck just because he can. “What,” he mumbles.

“I’m glad you came. Fuck off, not like that,” Tyler protests, when Patrick snickers. “It’s—it’s better.” Patrick doesn’t ask him to elaborate; he knows Tyler’s finishing their conversation from earlier, in a sense, apologizing in his own way. Now that it’s quiet, he can hear the muffled hum of the television from the living room, still on and forgotten.

Everything about the day’s been a lot, emotionally draining in some ways; Patrick hates to lose at home, especially when he’s not playing his best hockey, and he’s wary to disturb this calm, this strange equilibrium they’ve got when he’s not sure what he has to give, what Tyler wants to take.

So he doesn’t say anything, just nudges his forehead against Tyler’s in wordless acceptance of what Tyler’s trying to say, and thinks they're probably not leaving the apartment to ring in the New Year.

 

 

 

 

**JANUARY**

After an easy win against Winnipeg at home the team goes out, mostly due to boredom, lack of anything better to do after the holidays. Patrick always feels the drag of the season around this time, though it’s a lesser thing than it was in Chicago, the warmth of Texas actually doing him some good.

It’s been a relaxed night, most guys sticking to beer, and he’s casually talking to a couple girls, humoring them—he’s not interested, and it’s hilarious, he thinks, because Tyler would’ve been handy to have around when he was younger, to help fight off all the crazies. Then again, Tyler’s had to grow up a bit, too, so maybe not. He’s vaguely listening to one of the girls drunkenly tell him about her workout regimen when Tyler comes up beside him, sliding a hand around his waist in a way that’s definitely more than friendly.

Patrick shoves him off instinctually, stepping back before he even has to think about it. “Dude, we’re in public,” he hisses so the girls won't hear him, eyes wide with momentary panic, can’t help the reaction.

Tyler’s mouth falls open for a second, and Patrick thinks he sees a flash of hurt in Tyler’s eyes, but maybe it’s imagined because then Tyler’s laughing, clapping a hand on his shoulder like nothing happened. “More beer?” he asks, and Patrick can’t do anything but nod, heart still beating erratically fast, before he's saying a quick goodbye to the girls and putting some distance between them.

Except he waits, and Tyler doesn’t come back, and eventually he finds out from Spezza that Tyler went home a while ago.

“Oookay… Whatever, I guess,” Patrick shrugs, leaving Spezza to grab a stray beer from the table. Something’s not sitting right, but he’s drunk, and honestly doesn’t want to deal with it, so he goes to find Cody and Hemsky, who at least won’t dip out early on him.

 

*

                       

Tyler continues to give him somewhat of a cold shoulder the next day, though when they do talk it’s nothing overly noticeable, so Patrick doesn’t really even feel like he can bring it up. They don’t hook up again, though, and Patrick finds himself missing it, is uncomfortable with that revelation considering they’re still hanging out pretty consistently.

The month drags on, Patrick and Tyler fall back into something like friendship, and he keeps his mouth shut.

By some twisted string of fate, their first game against Chicago of the season falls not quite two weeks after the Winnipeg game, Chicago hosting, and Patrick doesn’t know whether he’s happy for the distraction against the fact that he’s not allowed to touch Tyler’s dick anymore, or annoyed at why he’s so distracted. It shouldn’t be a big deal, but—it really is. Mutual goodbye or not, he still feels like he’s got a lot to prove in this game, stomach a mess of knots every time he thinks about all the ways he could fuck it up, all the ways everyone in Chicago could say _good riddance_.

He manages to keep his mouth shut around most of the guys, but he sits down next to Tyler at the airport, figures he can say whatever he wants because Tyler, better than anyone, understands what this feels like. “Was it like this? First time you played Boston again?” Patrick says in a rush, forgetting for a second about the last time they talked about Boston, how it’s still not exactly the same for Patrick as it was for Tyler. Tyler must see something in his face, though, because he takes pity, knocking shoulders with him.

“Like you’re going to puke up everything in your stomach and then some?”

Pat makes a face. “Pretty much. It’s just like—we’ve got to win,” he says desperately, rubbing a hand over his eyes. He’s so keyed up, not really sure how he’s going to sit through the flight, and he almost jumps when he feels Tyler’s palm through his shirt, squeezing his bicep once.

“You chose to leave,” Tyler says slowly, frowning a little, but it’s not angry this time, just confused. “You don’t have anything to lose if the game doesn’t go that way.”

“Then I guess it’s more about me,” Patrick admits. He’s staring at the floor; the linoleum is scuffed and dirty, and he toes at a crack near his foot. “You know I’m competitive. And… I want the validation.” _That I made the right choice, coming here, leaving all that behind,_ he doesn’t say.

Humming once under his breath, Tyler puts some space between them again, but he says, “Then we’ll win it, eh?”

Spezza comes over, then, bag in hand. “Time to board. We got this, Kaner,” he says, looking serious. Patrick laughs, then. He might be buzzing with nerves, but he understands that it’s better to keep that on the inside when he’s got an entire team around him, looking to him, counting on him.

 

*

 

Sitting in the guest locker room at the United Center is fucking surreal, and tinged with something bittersweet. Not quite sadness, but the sense that he’s truly left his allegiance to the Blackhawks behind. Tyler catches his eye while they’re dressing, nodding at him pointedly, and Patrick nods back, because although he sure as hell doesn’t want to fuck up in front of this crowd, knows he might even get booed, he’s glad to be here, with _this_ team at his back.

Ruff doesn’t say anything particularly special in his pre-game talk, but he claps a hand on Patrick’s shoulder before they head out to the ice. That, more than anything, settles some of the nerves, and once he hits the ice he’s more prepared to shake his feelings off and just play. It’s just another hostile crowd in another hostile rink, and it’s not his anymore.

“Let’s fucking light it up,” Jamie says to him as he skates by during warm-ups, loud and close in his ear, and Patrick grins. Maybe he wasn’t so subtle, earlier, if Jamie picked up on it, or maybe Tyler said something. Either way, it’s nice to remember his team’s got his back.

His comfort disappears fast, though, because as soon as they’re all on the ice for warmups the UC plays a tribute video for him. He should’ve expected it, honestly, and he can’t help getting a bit choked up when the crowd cheers, but then he just feels distantly nauseous about the impending puck drop even though he knows this ice like the back of his hand.

Naturally, the game itself is ugly, top-speed from the first faceoff.

Vaguely, halfway into the first period, he wonders if it’s as weird for Seabs to be throwing actual hits at him as it is for him to be on the receiving end. If nothing else, it makes it easier for him to handle being on the other side—no one’s fucking around, nothing’s personal. It’s hockey. Patrick’s better than most at dodging hits, but then the Hawks know his playing style through and through, so he’s sore by first intermission. The score’s tied at 1-1, goals put up by Eakin and Hoss, and he won’t lie that he’s frustrated with his own lack of point production, though it’s moot. It’s not as if he really believed it would be easy—just wished it out of pride.

“Listen,” Ruff says, a couple minutes before it’s time to head back out, after Patrick’s finished getting his legs massaged and shaken out, “the Blackhawks lost their most talented forward this year. Should be an easy win.”

Patrick lets out a surprised laugh, along with a few other guys. If Ruff’s cracking jokes then he means it when he says their play’s not bad, just needs to go the extra distance. The confidence directed at him…that’s not bad, either, lights something under his skin he hadn’t realized was missing earlier.

It’s still rough play once they’re back out there, but now he feels like he’s finally got his feet under him again, grounded, searching for open ice in a familiar sea of red.

Midway through the second, he gets an opportunity to shift the game their way around when they’re on the power play, Rozsival sent off for tripping. He’s on the ice with Tyler, stuck in the middle near the boards fighting for the puck with Hammer. He kicks it loose after a few seconds of struggle, gets his stick on the puck long enough to fire off a pass to the right, hoping Tyler’s there. The pass connects and Patrick knows he’s got to get to the goal, skirts around Van Riemsdyk on his edges so that he’s ready when Tyler sets him up with the one timer. Boom.

Horn sounding, Patrick lets out a whoop, colliding with Jason and Tyler. Jamie and Klingberg pile on after, shouting over each other at Patrick. Fuck, but it feels good—better than he’d thought it would—to score against his old team. Like it proves that he can be the same player without them at his back, with a new group by his side. That he didn’t fuck anything up by leaving.

Not that the game’s over, not that he’s even close to being done.

Scoring always lights a fire, and they push through to a big win, 4-1, a two-point night for him that feels like a thousand. His heart’s in his throat when he skates over to congratulate Lehtonen after the final horn.

He’s a little shaky in the locker room, fingers not so deft now that he’s off the ice, and he fumbles through shedding his pads. Of course the media’s all over him, asking about how it feels to win in his old arena, against his friends, and Patrick barely knows what he’s saying, stumbling a little over the answers PR coached him on days earlier, when they told him to expect a lot for this so-called homecoming. He’s mostly just glad it’s over, though he doesn’t say that, finds some old rapport with beat writers he recognizes just to get him through the rest.

Once the media files out, Patrick makes like he’s going to go shower, most of the guys dressed and gone at this point, and instead heads through one of the back exits, shirt sticking unpleasantly to his skin from sweat in the cold air. As the adrenaline wears off the nausea catches up with him and he throws up on the curb, quick and cursory, nerves finally settling into exhaustion, relief. He wipes his mouth on the back of his hand, shaking it off, and says a quick thanks that no one else cared to venture behind the UC. He’s glad Tyler didn’t follow, gave him space for a moment of weakness, and he buries the last of it before he goes back inside, ready to move forward.

 

*

 

For the most part, shit’s normal between him and Tyler after playing Chicago, but they still aren’t hooking up, which—okay, Patrick thought they might get back to that.

Patrick’s not consciously trying, but that’s more due to the fact that Tyler’s been making excuses, only hanging out when it’s not just the two of them. And Patrick’s not an idiot, contrary to popular belief, except he isn’t really into the idea of sitting down and talking to Tyler about—what? He doesn’t even know what he did, and it feels way too much like he’s in the doghouse with his girlfriend, only he doesn’t have a girlfriend and it’s bullshit.

Maybe, he thinks, it might be good for them to take some space away from each other when they’ve more or less been living in each other’s pockets for months, something more than friends, not that Patrick really knows how to define it.

It’s telling of his admittedly limited emotional capacity that he just doesn’t want to go there yet, so for the rest of January he and Tyler keep it casual, still talk and play video games if Jamie’s around, but that’s it.

Patrick tries to convince himself he’s okay with it, but there’s a phantom presence against his side when they’re sitting on opposite ends of the couch, like he’s missing a limb. He ignores it. Tyler’s his teammate, first and foremost, and he’s here to play hockey—he’s sure as hell not trying to fuck with that, so if Tyler wants to keep things friendly and platonic, Patrick can suck it up and deal.

 

 

 

 

**FEBRUARY**

After a long stretch of home games they play Chicago again, another away game. It’s not that he’s been counting down the days since his last visit to the UC, but he has been thinking about how shitty he felt in January, how he doesn’t want that to happen again, so he makes plans with a few of the guys to go out after the game, win or lose. His own play isn’t phenomenal that night, puts up an assist and nothing else, but he’ll take it, considering they win 2-0, another shutout for Kari.

Since he’s kind of the bridge between the two teams, he brings a few of his own guys along, and it’s really not as tense as it could be, everyone loose with the mid-season monotony that tends to set in. Small blessings, and all that, even though Patrick’s never really understood how anyone could get bored with the season, has always been thankful the season’s as long as it is.

Twenty minutes and two beers into the night he loses his own team, drifting around with a few of the younger Hawks that he doesn’t know yet. That doesn’t last, either, too much camaraderie between the rookies that Patrick isn’t trying to get in the way of, and he wanders for a little while after talking to a few girls, double fisting a couple more beers that he finishes too quickly.

Somehow he ends up alone with Jonny, and now that they’re not teammates the conversation’s slightly more stilted, lacking the buffer of familiar daily life to talk about, especially not with the other guys around to add to the discussion. Plus, Jonny’s always been a sore loser, and tonight’s no different; Patrick can tell he’s purposely making it difficult, even though he fails to hide a smirk when Patrick makes a joke about Sharpy. Eventually their discussion about the Blues tapers off, and Patrick would feel way more awkward about this if not for how drunk he’s managed to get in the past hour. He’s about to make his excuses and find someone else to talk to, when Jonny says, with marginal disinterest, “Looks like your boy’s hooking up,” nodding over Patrick’s shoulder.

Turning, he immediately sees Tyler all over some blonde, making out like there aren’t a million people here with camera phones, and something that feels suspiciously like jealousy hits Patrick like a check from Chara. Suddenly it’s all he can do not to throw up the tequila shots from earlier, either that or throw a punch, and he knows he’d regret that.

“I need to go,” he says, not so much as a goodbye before he’s walking away from Jonny, out of the bar and in the direction of the hotel.

Once he’s outside he takes a second to breathe, to take himself away from this in a rational way because, really, it’s not like he and Tyler talked about it or anything, and maybe they should’ve but Patrick wasn’t going to be the one to bring it up. But, yeah, there was definitely a part of him that thought that whatever they were doing meant not hooking up with randoms, especially not in front of each other, shit. That’s Patrick’s tendency to get attached speaking. He realizes, now, it was a stupid thing to think, standing outside one of his favorite bars in Chicago in zero degree weather. Christ, they haven’t even been hooking up lately, and Patrick’s a fucked up mix of being hurt, pissed at Tyler, and pissed at himself for feeling anything at all.

There’s a strong part of him that wants to stay here and freeze out of spite until Tyler comes out however many hours later and feels sorry for him. Except fuck that, he doesn’t want Tyler’s pity, so he does the next worst thing he can think of, marches back into the bar to find one of the willing girl's he’d been talking to earlier, makes sure she’s still down, and kisses her.

He doesn’t want to do it, isn’t in the mood for it at all, but when he finally breaks away, he sees Tyler watching. Patrick shoots him a mean grin and a thumbs up—no one ever said he wasn’t a vindictive asshole, and if he can get under Tyler’s skin he’ll feel all the better for it—and then doesn’t look back when he leads the girl towards the door.

 

*

 

He blearily wakes up to the girl sneaking out of his room around five, and once she’s gone he crumples up the piece of paper with her number on it, throwing it at the wall with all the energy he can muster, as if it’ll make him any less pissed off. And pissed isn’t really the right word anymore, but Patrick doesn’t want to go there, not yet, maybe not ever if he can get himself under control. It’s a little sick that this had to happen in Chicago, of all places, but it’s probably some form of karma that such a huge part of his life has to fall apart here, in the midst of all he left behind. Patrick would love to go back to sleep, only the nausea is creeping up on him along with a killer headache, and he knows it’s going to be one of those mornings.

Breakfast isn’t any better, full of catcalls from Val and confused looks from Jamie, which only weirds Patrick out more because what the fuck does he know, anyway? He settles for flipping everyone off and pointedly not looking in Tyler’s direction as he grabs a muffin and heads back to his room to pack. It’s not like they have much time anyway, flight in a few hours, so maybe no one will even notice that he’s being an antisocial fuck.

He’s just finished throwing the last of his socks in his bag when there’s a knock at his door and he freezes, hoping it’s Tyler and simultaneously praying it’s not.

“Pat,” he hears through the wood. Fuck. After a long moment, he steels himself and opens the door, forcing his face into a blank expression, not that he owes Tyler anything else. He’s feeling selfish and spiteful, and maybe, _maybe_ a little guilty in the broad light of day where he can acknowledge that he and Tyler have been just friends for a while now.

“Sup?” he says, leaning against the frame, mostly to block Tyler’s entrance to his room. He could say it’s because he doesn’t want to be late, but really he can’t be alone with Tyler, not when he still _wants_ , and he’s not quite angry enough to trust his resolve.

Tyler looks over his shoulder and makes an aborted motion, like he wants to push Patrick into the room anyway, but then he sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose like standing here is taking some herculean effort. “Clearly you’re pissed at me,” he starts, and oh, hell no.

Patrick makes an incredulous noise and shakes his head, too entrenched in his self-righteous anger now to turn back, and he’ll be damned if Tyler’s actually going to try to pin this on him. It just makes everything worse, makes him feel guilty and ashamed for caring too much, and if that’s how Tyler wants to play it then fine; Patrick can be a dick, he can be the cold asshole girls have made him out to be in the past.

Tyler reaches out to grab his arm, but Patrick twists away from his reach. He can’t deal with Tyler touching him right now. “It’s cool, bro,” he says, slinging his bag over his shoulder and grabbing the room keys to turn in. “See you on the plane.”

Tyler doesn’t say anything, so Patrick shrugs, callous, like he doesn’t want to punch the wall next to Tyler’s head, and walks away towards the elevator. Tyler doesn’t follow.

 

*

 

They have a day off before they have practice again, and Patrick spends it moping around his apartment, wishing like hell he wasn’t so aware of Tyler a few floors below him. It’s so typical of him to realize he cares too much only after it’s thrown back in his face, always fucking late to his own party.

He’s also been so used to spending ninety-eight percent of his time with Tyler that not having the option (refusing, really) to fuck around or hang out has left him at a loss as to what to do with himself.

Back in Chicago he knew how to be alone, didn’t mind getting away from everyone occasionally. Here, though… Tyler’s been in his space since day one, and Patrick was all but powerless to say no, to push him back. And look where the fuck that’s gotten him, angry at Tyler and at himself for letting it get this far.

Five hours into wallowing in his own temper, he decides he can’t let it sit, and makes his way down the two flights of stairs. He pauses outside Tyler’s door, but not for long. He’s sure as hell not going to be able exist like this going forward, unsure of where they stand, needs to know exactly where to go from here, so he knocks, three abrupt thumps with the side of his fist, and braces himself when Tyler swings open the door.

“Hey,” Tyler says. It’s not that friendly, maybe a little wary, and for some reason that fuels Patrick’s anger.

He pushes past Tyler into the room, folding his arms across his chest when Tyler shrugs and turns to face him.

“Got something to say?” Tyler asks, bitchy now that he’s gotten a read on Patrick’s face.

“Yeah, actually, I do.” This isn’t going to be good, fuck. He feels like he’s about to come out of his own skin, hot and pissed off, and that’s never boded well for any conversation—argument, whatever—he’s ever been involved in. “What the fuck was that, in Chicago? You know me, dude, you know I don’t do shit halfway. And, uh. I kind of figured that at this point we were…I don’t know, not fucking other people, even after you decided to not put out.” Patrick’s skin is too hot, stretched tight over his bones, and he feels like an idiot for even saying any of this right now, when Tyler so clearly doesn’t care the same way. It makes him mean, malicious. “If you don’t want to hook up again, that’s fucking fine, but you could’ve at least clued me in before taking home some Chicago slut that I’ve probably already fucked before.”

Tyler’s mouth moves over silent words for a second before he gathers himself, and Patrick fights a wince, because yeah, that was harsh of him.

“Hook up? I kind of thought—you know what, _fuck_ you. And you, you’re the one so hell-bent on hiding it,” Tyler spits back, harsh, and Patrick recoils, because that’s not what he was expecting at all.

He blinks, confused for a split second longer, and then it comes to him hazily, that night back in January after they played Winnipeg. The source of everything getting fucked up between them, something so insignificant to Patrick at the time aside from the fear of getting caught, and he’s floored, remembering that brief flash of betrayal on Tyler’s face. “What, you don’t care?”

Tyler shrugs. It’s a tight motion. “No.”

Patrick’s not sure he’s processing this right, because he’s mostly sure Tyler just said he wanted to come out. Or something along those lines. And that’s—Patrick has never thought of it as even a possibility, let alone something he would actually go through with. They’re in the NHL, okay, Patrick is in no way looking to pave the road for gays in sports, he’s not that heroic and definitely not that masochistic, knows it would be _hell,_ and also he actually likes having a successful career. So he shakes his head even though he knows he’s effectively ending this, _this_ , whatever it is, and swallows around the lump in his throat. “I can’t do that,” he says. It’s really not a lie, but it feels like one all the same. Patrick’s nothing if not stubborn, though, and far too proud, and once he makes a point he tends to stick to it.

“Yeah, no, I figured,” Tyler says, casual, but Patrick can hear the hurt behind it, needs to get out of here before he changes his mind. He leaves through Tyler’s still-open door, doesn’t look back, and turns his phone off as he goes. Not that he thinks Tyler’s going to text him; it’s more for his own self-restraint than anything else.

 

*

 

Once he’s back in his own apartment the silence feels loud, too much time and space to think about what that means about how Tyler feels.

It’s terrifying, someone feeling that much for him, and Patrick, after years of practice, is goddamn great at avoidance, so that’s what he’s going to do. It’s all he can do, really, and at least he can tell himself it’s the only rational choice, one that someone, between the two of them, had to make.

 

 

 

 

**MARCH**

Avoidance, however much skill he has in the technique, really only works when he can drink steadily, and that’s just not an option during the season. Which is probably a good thing, considering his history, still won’t go anywhere near the topic of Madison if he can help it. Regardless of his efforts, for weeks it’s all he can think about, and it’s a harsh reality that it feels like his chest is caving in every time he sees Tyler. He made his bed and he has to lie in it, yeah, but he’s never felt like this before in his goddamn life, helpless and, frankly, miserable without any kind of solution in reach.

If his teammates notice anything’s off they say nothing, and to Patrick’s credit, he makes practice as normal as he can bear, joking with Tyler on the ice (and Tyler, for his part, goes along with it. If his eyes are a little tight, well, it’s late in the season, everyone’s tired) and in the locker room before they go their separate ways.

Jamie’s definitely aware, though Patrick has no idea how much Tyler’s told him, what he omitted. Tyler might be an asshole but Patrick doesn’t think he’d out him like that, and it’s amazing, that he still trusts Tyler with anything but can’t bear to talk to him, even look at him, outside of the rink.

A couple more weeks of this go by and the Stars are winning, no huge point margins but still managing to eke it out respectably enough that they’ve clinched a playoff spot, so things are as good as they could possibly be, given Patrick’s abysmal personal life, by the time they host Chicago in the last game they’ll play against each other before the playoffs.

The nervous bad taste in his mouth that was around the first time they played has long since disappeared, and he knocks his stick against Sharpy’s when they’re on the ice for warmups, shoots the shit with Duncs and TVR for a while during stretches. He’s actually feeling pretty good, loose and energized to be playing his old team in his home arena until he looks over at Tyler. Tyler, who’s the biggest jokester on the fucking team, is staring up at the crowd looking like someone ran over both of his dogs, and that’s—that’s Patrick’s fault. He must make some kind of horrible face, because Trevor follows his gaze, contemplative.

“Come out for drinks with us later, okay? Win or lose. On me,” Trevor says, sounding a lot more mature than Patrick remembers him being.

He blinks a couple times and knocks his glove against Trevor’s helmet. “Sounds like a plan, dude. Good luck,” he manages, taking a shallow breath before skating over to join his team.

Hockey’s usually a break from all the other bullshit in his life, but tonight it feels like the game’s some kind of parallel to the way everything’s going, because the entire first period is an uphill battle for the Stars, fast paced and just this side of in control. Puck possession’s been dominated by Jonny’s line, and Patrick’s tired by first intermission, the score miraculously tied at nothing thanks to Kari.

Ruff tells them to get their shit together, the usual, and switches up the lines for the second time that night so he and Tyler are playing together again. Fantastic.

He thinks, briefly, that maybe they won’t click this time, but of course that’s not the case, the one aberration to the way the two of them have fallen apart. They put up two goals in less than three minutes, Crawford’s glove side always his weakest point. Tyler crowds in after he scores, like always, except it feels more like a punch to the gut than a celebration, and Patrick hates that this thing with Tyler has bled into hockey. Like, fuck, he scored—on-ice production has always been the most important thing to Patrick—and yet he feels like he’s missing something vital, because Tyler’s there, yeah, but he’s definitely not Patrick’s. He’s not sure when that became something he needed, and it doesn’t matter—it’s not something he can have, not the way he wants. Cursing under his breath, he pushes himself away from everyone, ignoring the looks he gets from Jamie and Alex as he skates to the bench. A few guys reach out for fist bumps and Patrick goes through the motions, numb.

The rest of the game’s a blur, Patrick’s head not in it. They get the win through luck and good goaltending, 2-1, skin of their teeth.

He remembers Trevor’s invitation from earlier when he’s stripping out of his pads, wondering if it’s still on the table, because he sure as fuck isn’t in the mood to be around Tyler, or anyone else who’s likely noticed that something’s not right with them. That’s the one good thing, he thinks, about being the new guy on the team. He’s gelled with them pretty solidly, all things considered, but they still don’t quite know him well enough to get nosy the way, say, Sharpy would, or any of the Hawks. Trust takes years to build, and Patrick’s always played his cards pretty close to the chest.

When he exits the locker room, he’s surprised to actually find Trevor there, with Sharpy, Duncs, Nik, Jonny.

“Where to, Pat?” Sharpy says, serious, and Patrick sighs, knowing he’s going to have to talk, but honestly it’s probably not the worst thing that could happen.

“No way can I fit you all in my car, but here, grab a cab and follow—” He types out directions onto Jonny’s phone for him to give the cab driver.

Sharpy and Duncs ride with him, agreeably talking about their kids instead of hockey.

The bar’s nothing fancy, more dive than club, with booths lining the walls. He doesn’t think any of them are in the mood for something rowdier, anyway, and he orders a couple pitchers of beer, since he’s still on the winning side and not enough of an asshole to make anyone else pay, no matter what Trevor said earlier.

Once they’re seated and settled with drinks, Jonny fixes him with a look. “Okay, Kaner, what the fuck’s going on. You won. Why do you look like you had a minus-four game?”

It’s such a predictably _Jon_ thing to say, blunt and kind of insensitive, that Patrick actually cracks a smile. “Not everything’s about hockey, To-es,” he mocks, making a face, even though this is about hockey, in a way.

Half of him really, really doesn’t want to be here, with his old teammates supportive as ever of whatever shit they think he might be going through while he’s leaving his own team in the dark. It feels almost wrong, some kind of betrayal, when hypothetically he’d be going to Jamie, to Alex, to Jason. For all that he would in any other situation, he _can’t_ , not when it’s about Tyler, not when it was Tyler’s team first. So here he is, at the goddamn inquisition with people who aren’t his teammates anymore but, he concedes, still his friends.

“Just worried about you, Kaner,” Trevor shrugs. “And, uh. You know we—we won’t judge.”

Shit. Patrick’s been so stuck in his head that he forgot that it’s not some girl he’s upset over, it’s Tyler, it’s a _guy_.

Suddenly it’s too hot, claustrophobic where he's wedged into the corner, and he fights the urge to get the hell out of this booth and bolt before he has to admit to anything. But then he makes himself look up around the table (of course Trevor probably said something, too perceptive for his own good) and his words ring true—no one’s judging, just looking at him expectant and understanding. Jesus. Leave it to Patrick to get himself in this deep that he’s admitting this shit in public _after_ Tyler’s told him to fuck off.

“I had a thing with Tyler,” he says in a rush, before he pussies out. No one so much as blinks, and he almost wants to snort at the sad hilarity of all this. “And, uh. I don’t know, I fucked it up, and I can’t fix it, and things are kind of shit, now. I’m whining, I know.” He tries to sound less like some lovesick idiot, except—

“Fuck, I might be in love with him,” Patrick blurts out, dizzy with the realization, and he’s actually glad he’s not alone for this shit, because _fuck_. It’s better that he’s saying this aloud to these guys, guys he won with and lost with for years, than to anyone else, even his family. He presses three fingers into his temple, still a little mortified that he said it out loud at all.

The guys are silent for about two seconds, but then Sharpy says, “All shock aside about the fact that you suddenly—is it suddenly?—like dick, you might want to think about, uh, telling him. And if you were hiding this the whole time you were in Chicago, we’re going to have more to talk about, asshole.”

Patrick gives a weak laugh, all he can really manage after that, sliding his knuckles against the condensation on his glass. “No, it’s definitely a pretty, uh, new thing. Didn’t really have a clue until…until Tyler. And I can’t tell him. Won’t do any good, it doesn’t matter.”

“The way he was looking on the ice, I’d say yeah, it would do some good,” Trevor says, raising his eyebrows.

“Nah, you don’t—he wants to, like, date. Publicly. I’m not…You guys get that that’s impossible, right.” Just saying it makes his heart rate pick up, and there’s not much that truly scares him, but this does. He doesn’t really want to think about why.

“Why not?” Jonny asks. Of course Patrick’s self-avoidance tactics aren’t going to fly here.

“Are you fucking with me?” Patrick says. “Because it’s _insane_. Do you realize the kind of shit I’d have to deal with, what we both would, if we did that? No one’s out in the league. You know that well as I do. I’ve only had a few months to even, like, know this about myself. And I do actually want to keep playing hockey, thanks,” he adds, in case anyone at the table needs another dose of reality, because that last thing is really the most important out of all of it.

Nik cuts in before Patrick can continue rambling, says, “Okay, don’t get mad, but. If you’re so unhappy now, how is any of that going to be a worse situation than this?”

Taking a huge gulp of his beer, mostly to stall, Patrick thinks about it. On the one hand, he stays…in the closet, whatever, and doesn’t get back what he had with Tyler. And he’s sure about that, knows that even their friendship is going to take a while to get back to where it used to be. On the other, if he grows a pair, then maybe what he wants isn’t so out of reach, even if it’s fucking _crazy_.

“It’s not that simple,” he says instead. “None of you are in my shoes right now so I don’t expect you to get it, but telling the world, ‘hey, by the way, I’m also into dudes, specifically my teammate’ is a huge fucking commitment to a hell of a lot of bullshit.” No one, thankfully, says anything about the way his voice cracks at the end. He doesn’t tell them it’s not even the commitment to Tyler that scares him, figures they know him well enough emotionally to know that when he’s in, he’s all in.

“Can I just ask something?” That’s Duncs. Patrick shrugs. “This is, like, a fact about you now, right? That you like guys too? Not just some phase, it’s part of you,” Duncs says, and if it comes out slightly awkward, Patrick’s not going to call him on it.

It’s more of a statement than a question, but Patrick knows he can’t just let it sit. “Well, yeah. Yeah, I guess.” He hasn’t spent much time, if any, looking at guys other than Tyler in any kind of interested way, but he’s not repulsed by it. He’s just tragically emotionally attached.

“What if you keep your mouth shut and then, down the line, you want to date someone else? Hear me out,” Duncs says, holding up a finger when Patrick opens his mouth to protest. “I know you, Kaner, and you’re all about keeping your personal life personal, but you’re also not the kind of guy to hide who you are, either. And…if Seguin means that much to you, maybe you should think about what’s most important.” He sits back against the booth, sipping at his beer, and Patrick wants to roll his eyes against the advice, even when he’s still reeling with the fact that they’re all here with him, treating him like nothing’s changed.

“None of us are getting any younger,” Nik says. Which, easy for him to say, he’s got Elina and Theo, his life’s set.

Patrick scoffs, but then he lets his face fall back into whatever miserable expression it’s been stuck in for days, and he runs his finger around the rim of his glass. “This sucks. Like—who the fuck would’ve thought I’d ever be in this position.”

“Yeah, I don’t think any of us saw it coming,” Jonny snickers, like he can’t help himself.

That lightens the mood, at least, and Patrick smirks at him.

Sharpy leans forward, then, makes sure he’s got Patrick’s attention. “Kaner, you know we’re not pushing you one way or the other, obviously, but shit, you know we’ll have your back whatever you do.”

“I…thanks, fuck,” Patrick manages, rubbing a hand over his face as if that’ll get rid of the heat in his cheeks.

Just as Trevor opens his mouth, probably to chirp him for blushing so easily, Nik takes pity and changes the subject to Theo, thank fucking god, and they spend another hour or so just catching up before Patrick decides to call it a night. His mind’s clouded with too much to think about, can't really focus on the conversation, and he doesn’t actually want to be rude.

Each of them pulls Patrick in for a hug before he can escape to his car, and even though he’s still scared by the time he gets home, the fear's less present, and he thinks he’s figured a few things out.

 

*

 

Waking up the next morning is—a fucking experience, honestly. A good night’s sleep has been necessary for a while, and that coupled with his emotional revelations makes everything a little sharper, clearer, in the light of day. He’s as clumsy as he’s ever been in the kitchen, dropping a piece of toast twice before giving up on it entirely, burnt crumbs all over his floor. Nik had been right, though. There isn’t really a worse alternative to this, not to Patrick. He’s 26, he’s not even as good as he knows he can be, and he’s just got to trust in that, somehow, because he's got his priorities and Tyler's right there at the top, next to hockey. He spends another ten minutes thinking about all the ways everything could go wrong, and then all the ways it could go right.

Before he loses the adrenaline he’s stumbling down a couple floors and banging on Tyler’s door, sure he’s awake because it’s past 10 and Tyler’s not a lazy sack of shit.

“You’re gonna have to bear with me, let me take it slow,” Patrick blurts as soon as the door’s open, pushing past Tyler before he can change his mind. He feels a little sick, actually, but he swallows that down. All in, he reminds himself.

Tyler’s gaping at him, door still half open behind him, and Jamie’s on the fucking couch, but Patrick’s pretty sure he already knows anyway, and that’s kind of the point of this, so he plows on. “Like, I’ve got to tell my family first, before anyone finds out. I mean, fuck, they’re going to be as surprised as I was.” He manages not to make a face; his family’s really the least of his concerns, and he’s sure he doesn’t want the alternative. He made a choice, coming to Dallas, and it’s led him here. Might as well accept it for everything it is. “And we’re going to do it right, okay, run it by everyone just in case someone decides I have to quit hockey, or something, get PR involved—”

“Are you fucking with me right now?” Tyler bites out, eyes wide, and he’s gripping the door like it’s a goddamn life vest, fingers white where they’re pressed to the wood. Patrick’s mouth snaps shut with a click as Tyler sways, lets go of the door and closes the distance between them so fast Patrick’s dizzy with it. He’s vaguely aware of Jamie’s presence, gaze on the back of his head, but that vanishes as soon as he sucks it up and meets Tyler’s eyes, dark and serious.

Patrick licks his lips, mouth suddenly dry. “Yeah. I mean, no, fuck, I’m not fucking with you—”

This time, Tyler cuts him off with his mouth. It’s rough and messy, Patrick fingers shaking where they circle around Tyler’s wrist, teeth clashing for a moment, but Patrick’s missed this more than he’d like to admit, so it’s fine, it’s perfect, and when their mouths finally slot together the right way he can’t help the noise he makes.

They break apart to Jamie’s obnoxious slow-clap from the couch, punctuated with a wolf-whistle.

Patrick flips him off, rush of feeling flooding his chest that’s something like exhilaration, and he shudders, pressing his forehead to Tyler’s, who bends enough to meet him halfway.

“Can’t believe you,” Tyler mutters around his grin, sliding a hand through Patrick’s hair possessively.

Patrick laughs, pulling Tyler in with a hand on his hip. “What can I say,” he says, low, so hungry for this now that he’s letting himself have it. “I live to surprise and delight.”

“Oh, fuck _off_ , get a fucking room,” Jamie interjects with no small amount of disgust, standing abruptly from the couch, but he's smiling a little.

“No one asked you to be here,” Patrick says, smirking, though Tyler’s the only one who can see it.

“Yup, and I’m about to be gone,” Jamie says, sounding like he’s already halfway out the door. Patrick doesn’t look to check, but they both jump a little when the door closes, too loudly to be completely accidental.

Now that they’re alone, Patrick lets go of Tyler completely, steps back enough that he feels like he can breathe again. “I’ve got one—condition, I guess,” he says, fighting the urge to match Tyler’s grin.

Tyler nods, trying to school his face into something more serious. It’s hilarious to watch, and Patrick’s struck by how right this feels, wasn’t one-hundred percent sure he was making the right call until this exact moment.

“Pat. What’s the condition,” Tyler says, tone impatient. Which is typical, but Patrick’s with him there, wants to _touch_ now that he’s allowed to again. He has to say this first, though, thinks Tyler will be on the same page about it anyway.

“If, for whatever reason, the organization is against it—I can’t give up hockey yet. Eventually, yes, and I’d. Shit, Tyler, I’d wait. But I just need to make sure we can keep hockey.”

Tyler exhales in a rush of air, seems almost relieved, and Patrick’s lips curl into a small smile.

“Yeah, _yes_. Of course,” Tyler says, shaking his head. “I’m pretty sure we’ll be fine, but. Yeah. I can live with that, if that’s what happens.”

It’s like the last piece has fallen into place, unseen but inexplicably felt, because Patrick feels—fucking ready, alive, like it’s time for the final round of a shootout and he’s got the goalie’s number.

The season’s not over but the last stretch looks conquerable from where Patrick’s standing, and when he drags Tyler in again it feels like victory.

 

 

 

 

**JUNE [EPILOGUE]**

Patrick’s won two cups already and each felt different; the first was unreal, untouchable, some kind of miracle that Patrick had no clue how to process at the time, weight of Chicago’s loyalty on his shoulders.

The second felt inevitable, tail end of such an incredible season that had all but hurtled them into the Final.

This one—Patrick doesn’t know if he has words, yet, on the ice trying to find Tyler, whose goal off his assist won it for them, game five—it feels like _more_. Like he earned it, with this team, on home ice for the first time out of all three.

Tyler crashes into him, eyes a little wet, and Patrick knows this is something else for him, too, a long-deserved _fuck you_ to the Bruins and a means to recover from that betrayal.

“Segs,” he shouts, voice cracking, because it’s so fucking loud. Tyler’s helmet is gone, his beard’s disgusting, and he’s got a hand fisted tight in the sleeve Patrick’s jersey, as if Patrick would want to go anywhere right now.

“Hey,” Tyler answers, hoarse.

Patrick looks at him for a second, ignoring Colton when he skates by with the Cup, though it’s a near thing. He swivels the hat on his head so it’s backwards in a pointed motion, and Tyler’s eyes widen a little. They talked about it late one night, quiet and in the dark, like it might tempt fate against them to say it anytime else. How if they won the Cup, then Patrick wanted this. Wanted everything to feel complete.

Even though they’d already agreed to wait, cleared everything with PR so that they could make an official statement over the summer, win or lose, Patrick doesn’t really want to miss this chance to be selfish.

Tyler and hockey, or: his whole fucking life, depending on how you look at it.

“I fucking love you,” he says, and then leans in, mouth opening against Tyler’s before he can hesitate. Honestly—it’s a pretty dirty kiss for being in public, all tongue and heat, but Patrick doesn’t actually want there to be any doubts about what this means. This is getting captured from every angle, he’s sure, and he forces away the urge to flip everyone off, figuring he can use all the good press he can get, now.

The Stars’ PR team is going to rip Patrick a new one, probably, but at least Patrick did them the courtesy of filling them in at all, considering the season hadn’t been over when they’d had the meeting.

Tyler’s the first to pull away, mostly to catch his breath, but then Patrick sees Cody at his shoulder, holding the Cup and looking a little guilty for interrupting, which, nah, it’s the Cup.

Patrick takes it from him, fingers steady on the metal, and for a second it hits him how crazy it is, for him to be holding this trophy again on different ice, home ice, just as much a part of the victory as he was before. “Fuck,” he says to himself, almost like a prayer, and skates around Tyler once before handing the Cup to him, because if anyone needs to hold it, it’s Tyler.

As soon as Tyler’s off on his victory lap, the media’s in Patrick’s face, and now he actually has to say something. He tries to latch on to one definitive question, finally catches one from Stepneski that he thinks he can handle. “Yeah, we’re dating,” he says quickly, “and yeah, it’s serious, and I’ll be happy to answer everyone’s questions about it—when we’re done celebrating in a few weeks.”

Probably not quite the soundbite they wanted, but fuck it, Patrick decides that’s more than enough.

“Go get your booooy,” Spezza crows from behind him, shoving Patrick in Tyler’s direction, and yeah, he thinks, watching Tyler across the ice. That’s where he wants to be.

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> I used to bum around hockey tumblr quite a bit, but not so much anymore, so you can find me [here.](http://deapdools.tumblr.com)


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